Velvet, Leather & Lace

by Suzanne Forster, Donna Kauffman

  “She’s one of the catalog models who works for us,” he explained. His voice had lost conviction, but he made up for it with volume. “I liked the way she wore my clothes, and I had her in mind when I designed this.”

  “A model with a mole on her breast?” Lorna pointed out the sexy dark spot in the woman’s décolletage, making sure Jamie saw it. And then she ripped the strap from her bodice, letting it fall open again. There was an identical mole snuggled just inside her cleavage.

  “Does your model have one of these?” she asked. “Does any other woman you know have one of these? Right there? Where mine is?”

  Her breasts bounced as she thrust them at him. Jamie was beginning to understand the fantasies of men who dreamed of being smothered to death by a woman’s bosom.

  “You need to keep your clothes on,” he said. “People get thrown in jail for indecent exposure.” Lame, but it was the only thing that came to him. He’d just realized it was her in the sketches. Lorna Sutton was his muse, and he hadn’t even realized it.

  “Indecent exposure? This from the man who’s secretly exploiting me and using my body to inspire his lascivious designs? A man who hasn’t spoken to me in six months? Maybe now I know why.”

  He backed her to the wall. “What are you implying? That my sketches are somehow violating your rights? If you can prove that’s you in those sketches, be my guest. I didn’t realize it myself.”

  She averted her eyes, but only for a second.

  “Why are you here?” he asked her, “dressed like that, in one of my designs?”

  “Because you called me and invited me!”

  “You’re not a reporter or the paparazzi? You’re not some practical joke sent by my partners?”

  “I don’t know your partners. I didn’t even know you worked for VLL. You called and offered me a deal, which by the way, we haven’t discussed. I’ll take the all-expenses paid vacation. To Tahiti, if you don’t mind. I have a thing about palm trees and trade winds.”

  “Fine, fine.” He stared deeply into her eyes, wondering who this beautiful witch woman was and how she’d managed to derail him twice now. If she was here under false pretenses, he would find out and there would be hell to pay. But right now, it didn’t matter what she was up to; he wanted to be up against her. His hands tingled with the urge to rip her negligee off by its StripLoc’d seams. His groin tingled with the urge to have her ripe, juicy body against his and to kiss her as senseless as she was making him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE PILLOW WAS TOO WARM and it smelled of him. She flipped it over, knowing that wouldn’t solve the problem. It was too warm because of her, and it smelled of him because it was his pillow, and she’d insisted on taking his room.

  The mint she detected was probably toothpaste, and the notes of cedarwood and pine were from his cologne. Of course, there was that male thing. Pheromones, she’d read somewhere. They had no discernible odor but supposedly they shot straight to the susceptible part of a woman’s brain and toggled on her hormones.

  She switched pillows and lay there, eyes open, wondering if she would be smelling other things now. Perfume? Hairspray? This bedroom must be where he brought his women. And with his rock star looks he probably had groupies, whom he loved and left on a regular basis, if the way he’d dropped her was any indication.

  She really didn’t want to think he was that much of a rogue. But he’d really had her with those sketches. She’d had several sleepless hours to think about it, and she’d realized that Jamie Baird had a lot at stake, and desperation could drive a man to do slimy things. How did she know that he hadn’t whipped up a couple sketches of her, thinking she would be flattered to death, and it would close the deal when she saw them? Although, he had certainly done a good job of looking shocked when she’d recognized herself.

  He was a rogue.

  Both pillows landed in a heap on the floor as she sat up. It was too warm to sleep anyway. And at thirty she was too young for hot flashes. She’d taken off the black lace negligee and slipped on a short kimono. She was wearing only panties underneath, and if it hadn’t been for her concern that he might wander in to get something he needed, she would have been wearing nothing.

  She could see without turning on lights. The moon was full, and the French doors and the skylight provided plenty of illumination as she got out of bed and went over to his desk for another look at the sketches.

  It was her all right, and he had talent to spare. He’d made her look sexy and sweet at the same time. Yummy, she thought, which wasn’t bad. Chocolate sundaes were yummy, as were purring kittens and the madly sensual shape of a man’s behind. Yummy and biteable. Maybe that was the secret of his success. He could make a woman look good enough to eat. Any woman.

  After their second date, she’d been riddled with questions and doubts about herself. She was certain she’d been too wild and fast, and she’d also wondered if he was secretly turned off by women of size. Otherwise, why did he drop her like a hot potato? The rejection had almost driven her to dieting, and then she’d decided to hell with that—and him. No man was going to make her feel that bad about herself.

  The faint sound of splashing water distracted her from her thoughts. She did a quick visual check of the master bath to see if anything was running, and realized the noise was coming from outside. Both the bedroom and bathroom had French doors that led to the terrace. She’d left them open for air circulation, and it sounded as if someone was swimming in the pool. What a refreshing thought.

  She tied the kimono around her and went out to investigate. If it had been a different situation or anyone else, she would have put on a more concealing robe. But it was him, the rogue, and if he felt any attraction for her naked legs, let him suffer. If he didn’t, she would know soon enough.

  He was swimming laps. His stroke was smooth and fluid, and the muscles of his shoulders rippled as easily as the water. The moonlight made it all very beautiful, a solitary swimmer cutting through ribbons of black and molten silver. Lorna was surprised at his athleticism. She would have thought him too busy to be in such great shape.

  She walked to the edge of the pool, and he suddenly surfaced at her feet, breaking the water with resounding force. He must have known she was there. She didn’t think he missed very much.

  Silvery water made his facial muscles look powerful and his dark eyelashes long and spiky. He had naturally wavy hair and lots of it. She watched it spring back from the weight of the water and curl at the nape of his neck. He’d always looked good enough to eat, but right now he looked good enough to drink, too. A tall glass of hard lemonade on ice or spiked iced tea. Something cool and bracing, with a kick.

  Lord, she was thirsty.

  He threw his head back to let the water pour off him. “You’re up late,” he said.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Neither could I. It’s too hot. And that mattress in the guest room is filled with rocks.”

  Good, she thought, he was suffering. Not enough, and not for the right reasons, but it was a start.

  “How’s my bed?” he asked her.

  “A change of linen would be nice.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with those sheets. They were fresh out of the dryer.”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You slept in them. I can smell you.”

  He whispered back. “You can smell me? Is that some kind of sexual thing?”

  Lorna made the terrible mistake of getting flustered. Normally she was armed and dangerous in a verbal duel, but his searingly husky voice had caught her off guard. Rule number one when obedience training a man, she reminded herself. If you want to put him in his place, do not blush!

  Jamie was already undressing her with his eyes. He’d removed her kimono as effectively as if he’d pulled the tie and whisked the silken robe off her in one bold stroke. Still whispering, he said, “No one is forcing you to sleep in my bed. That was your idea.”

  “No reporter is going to believe that I
live here unless I’m totally comfortable,” she reminded him. When they had discussed sleeping arrangements earlier, she’d explained that she had to inhabit the entire house as if it were hers, or she wouldn’t be convincing, and that included his bedroom. He’d agreed. Yet more evidence of his desperation, as far as she was concerned

  “If you want to trade beds,” he said, “I’ll be happy to oblige. And trust me, the reporter will never know.”

  “If I want your bed, or anything else—”

  “Just whistle,” he said, cutting her off.

  Obedience training was too good for him, she decided. Someone ought to muzzle him, which was precisely what would happen when she did the interview. She would become Jamie Baird and he wouldn’t be able to do or say a thing. She might even introduce him as her assistant. Oh, what fun. If that was her inner B word coming out to play, it was about time.

  “Say the word, Lorna,” she whispered, correcting herself.

  They were at the deep end of the pool, and the ladder to climb out was on the wall a few feet away. He swam there and pulled himself out. Lorna almost didn’t want to watch. Water streaming over his face was one thing. Water streaming over his rugged body was going to be quite another.

  She was already intimately familiar with his chest hair. She’d felt it tickling her skin when they’d made love on his dining room table. By then he had his shirt unbuttoned and her bra pushed up, which had bared her breasts in the most erotic way imaginable, and freed him to do unspeakable things. They never got their clothes all the way off. Who had time?

  But that was then and this was now. Did she really want to see his chest hair all drenched and glued to his muscles? His swim trunks clinging to the bulges between his legs?

  Apparently so.

  She couldn’t rip her gaze away as he walked toward her. He was ungodly gorgeous, especially those sexy bulges. Cold water looked hot on him. His chest was mostly smooth except for the crescents of dark hair arcing over his pecs and the feathery arrow between his abs. He was built like a Greek deity, except for the bulges, where he was considerably larger. It looked as if he might be flirting with an erection.

  Even the possibility turned her to liquid. She could hear gurgling in the pit of her stomach. Dammit all, she was weak.

  She guessed him to be just over six feet, and she was just under five feet six, if she cheated and stood on her tiptoes. She certainly couldn’t intimidate him with her stature so she had to find other ways. And she would use every wicked one of them. Thank God he didn’t have breasts and she did.

  He grabbed a towel from a deck chair and blotted his face as he walked over to her. “Why are we whispering?” he asked.

  “Because it’s late, and I assume your neighbors like to sleep.”

  “Sleep, yes, I used to like it myself.”

  Lorna had never imagined it could be arousing to watch a man raise his arms and towel off his pits. It was with this guy. Hell, she would probably get aroused watching him brush his teeth. By the time he’d worked the towel over his chest and down to his thighs, she was fighting the urge to cross her legs and squirm. Maybe he needed help with the other side? He did have the loveliest rear end. She could remember touching it when he was buried deep inside her. And gripping it for dear life when that beautiful storm came over her.

  Why was she attracted to men like this? To rogues and sexual desperados? She needed a glandectomy!

  “Why don’t you take a swim?” he suggested, tossing the towel aside. “Get comfortable with the pool.”

  “I’m naked under this kimono,” she informed him.

  “I won’t look.”

  Sure. Just like she hadn’t looked. At least she had the attention off his body and on hers, which relieved her anxiety, but not by a whole lot. She didn’t normally flaunt herself this way. She’d always been self-conscious about her ample curves, but he didn’t seem to be bothered by them. She hadn’t picked up any signs of distance or disapproval, and she was very sensitive to those things. In fact, he seemed pretty interested in what she had going on under her kimono.

  “Maybe we should discuss the interview,” she said. “I’ll need to be prepared.”

  “Tomorrow. I’ll coach you on everything you need to know. Right now, since we’re both awake, let’s relax and get to know each other. How about a drink?”

  “Sure. A lemonade would be great. Hard, if you have it.” She almost blushed again.

  “Hard lemonade? You are an interesting woman.”

  “It’s very tasty,” she assured him. “Sour and citrusy. Makes my mouth pucker just thinking about it.”

  He gave her mouth a smoldering look. “Will Long Island iced tea do? I’ll throw in a lemon wedge just to watch your mouth pucker.”

  She nodded and he headed off to the gazebo bar on the other side of the terrace. She hadn’t noticed the bar before, but his backyard was lovely. The pool lights turned the water a vibrant turquoise, and the surrounding gardens bloomed with flowering bushes and trees. The night breezes were sweet, and somewhere beyond the foliage, she could hear the waters of the canal softly rushing.

  Lorna felt as if she were lost in a tropical jungle. It might just be the perfect night for seduction. With that thought in mind, she arranged herself on a chaise lounge to wait for him. She let her kimono gape open, knowing what it would reveal every time she reached over to pick up her drink from the table between them.

  Jamie returned with the drinks, set them on the table and stretched out in the other chair, still beautifully damp and disheveled from his swim.

  Her iced tea had three lemon wedges. She heaped him with polite thanks and reached for her drink. “Have you learned how to pick out melons yet?” she asked.

  His moonlit gaze went straight to her deeply plunging neckline. “I’m not as good as I’d like to be,” he said. “Are you offering lessons?”

  She set her glass down and leaned toward him, crowding her breasts with her arms. She could feel them rise and shimmer with her movements, and the sensation sparked a sweet little gush of excitement in her nether parts, which was not exactly what she had in mind. She wanted him to gush.

  “It’s very easy,” she assured him. “The melons need to be firm, yet soft and supple to the touch. It’s always good to jiggle them a little to make sure they’re ripe and ready.”

  “Really?” He cleared his throat and took a long drink of the tea.

  “Oh, jiggling is a must. It tells you whether a melon is juicy or not. Smelling works, too. And if the fruit is large you can cup it in your hand and tap it with your fingers. Gently, of course. You wouldn’t want to bruise the tender flesh.”

  “Oh, hell, no.”

  She glanced down at the abundance of her own tender flesh. Spilling out of the robe would be putting it mildly. She tweaked the kimono together, pretending modesty, and then she leaned toward him, and everything popped open again.

  His poker face gave nothing away, but she thought she detected a line of perspiration on his upper lip. The effect on his swim trunks was even more gratifying.

  “How does one smell a ripe melon?” he asked.

  “With your nose, of course. It’s a rich, musky odor. You can’t miss it. Melons have a mound, you know. Yes, they do. It’s at the warm, swollen end of the fruit. You can find it by handling them. Don’t be afraid to handle them to your heart’s content. And when you find the mound, you just breathe in, easy as that. Of course, the real test is to give it a little bite and see how it responds, but then you’d have to buy it, so I wouldn’t do that unless you’re quite sure this is the melon you want to eat.”

  He set his glass down. “You’re telling me to bite a melon? Right there in the store? I’d get arrested.”

  “Not at all.” She smiled. “Mmm, I can almost taste it, sweet and dripping with juice. Can’t you?”

  He let out a tight sigh. So tight it could have been a groan. “It’s hot out here,” he said. “Are you sure you don’t want to go for a swim?”


  “No, I’m fine, but please yourself.” She ran her fingers inside the neckline of her robe, stroking her flushed skin. She was sticky hot and probably smelled like a strawberry patch. She would have loved a dip, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “I’ll just get wet,” he said.

  She smiled. “Me, too.”

  He dived in and swam like a dolphin under water. But when he came up, he clutched his side and gave out a howl.

  Lorna sprang from the chair. “What’s wrong?” she called to him.

  “I don’t know. It’s my chest. It’s tight as a fist. It feels like my heart.”

  She was certain he wasn’t having a heart attack. It was probably a cramp. “Can you swim?”

  He went under, still gripping his side and Lorna panicked. She ran around to that side of the pool, but he was drifting to the center, and she couldn’t get close enough to reach him without going in, too.

  “Are you all right?” she shouted when he came up again.

  She couldn’t hear his answer, but he was clearly in pain. She could tell by the way he was grimacing. She still wanted to believe it was a cramp. All that talk of melons had overstimulated him. He was probably overheated, and then he’d gulped down the entire glass of Long Island iced tea.

  Lorna could barely swim. She should call 911, but there wasn’t time. She had to do something. He went down again, and without another thought to her modesty—or her safety—she ripped off the robe and jumped in the pool.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JAMIE FELT SOMEONE fling an arm across his chest and pull him toward the surface. They broke water, and he got a lungful of air before they went back down again. The pain in his ribs was excruciating, like a nail being pounded into his side. It had been bad enough to stop him in the middle of a stroke, but he had no intention of drowning. He’d been waiting for the pain to ease.

  Now he couldn’t swim because she was clinging to him. It had to be Lorna, and she was going to drown them both. He glanced up and saw the bubbles escaping from her mouth and nose. She definitely wasn’t a swimmer. She wasn’t even holding her breath.