“Sure,” she said, a wry smile on her lips. “Usually in my moments of self-pity and loneliness, when I’d look around and wonder how other people managed to find love and companionship while I was slowly turning into a brittle, dried-out old hag.”
Mick nearly spit out a mouthful of tea. “Say again?”
Piper waved her hand and laughed. “It’s not a big deal,” she said with a shrug. “I’m starting to see that blaming you for my dry spell allowed me to avoid responsibility for my own choices, my own fears.”
Mick was gobsmacked. It made no sense. “Uh, you mean to tell me you’ve been lonely for ten years? You’ve been walking around alone for all this time?” He studied her carefully. The sorrow in her eyes confirmed this was no joke.
“I didn’t exactly advertise that I was available, or even remotely interested,” Piper said. “Looking back, I realize the men who did approach me had to be some pretty brave souls, but none of them were right for me.”
A shiver went down Mick’s spine. “And I did that to you? I made you go into hiding?”
“No. I did it to myself.” Piper sat up straighter in her chair. “It was just easier to blame you.”
Mick spent the next forty-five minutes in rapt attention as Piper described her life—her controlling parents, her cat, her little Cambridge apartment, the failure of her last exhibit, good ole Brenna, and the complete nob heads she’d dated over the years. It all helped him understand her better, but left him holding a raw sadness deep in his gut.
He reached across the table and Piper quickly slipped her hand into his. “I am sorry my actions hurt you,” he said.
She tilted her head and smiled at him thoughtfully. “And I’m sorry I pushed you away when you tried to explain. I messed up.”
“We both did.”
They wandered the bookstore together for another couple of hours. They lingered in the poetry section, taking up residence there, heads together. In the sweetest of whispers, Piper read him selections from Shelley, her blue-blood Boston accent making him smile.
Then Mick reached for a volume of Yeats, and gently backed Piper against the shelves, his mouth close to her ear. He began to read aloud:
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
Mick replaced the book and cradled Piper’s face in both his hands. He lowered his lips to her forehead and the tip of her adorable nose before he set about kissing her properly.
It was a long, hot, luxurious tangle of lips and heat and tongue that paid no mind to the busy bookstore, the spinning of the earth, or the passing of time.
It was a kiss potent enough to make up for lost opportunities and heal the sting of regret.
It was a kiss for the ages.
* * *
Brenna circled the bed, a slight frown forming between her eyes. The reaction surprised Piper, because she really thought she’d done a bang-up job turning her apartment into Scheherazade City. She only had five days until the sinning was scheduled to start, so if Piper needed to do more shopping, Brenna had better let her know now.
“Why are you frowning? Am I missing something?” Piper checked her notes again. “I got everything from the list—the corsets, the stockings, the peacock feather, the velvet ropes, the blindfold, the lace-up high-heeled boots, the heavy cream, the—”
Brenna placed a hand on her forearm. Piper stopped talking and glanced up.
“None of it will matter if you’re twitchy. There’s nothing even remotely sexy about twitchy.”
She narrowed an eye at her friend. “Which volume was that in?”
“It’s in my volume!” Brenna laughed as she put an arm around Piper. “You’ve done an amazing job with the place. Relax! It’s a pleasure palace!”
Though Piper heard Brenna’s reassuring words, she couldn’t help but scan the bedroom, still concerned something might be lacking. The last thing she wanted to do was be smack in the middle of the Fourth Sin and not be able to get her hands on the massage oil.
“Take a deep breath,” Brenna said.
She did as directed, gazing at her handiwork with pride. She’d bundled a dozen harem-inspired white sheers into a fluffy rosette, then tacked it to the ceiling over the bed. The sheers were loosely tied at each corner, leaving enough room for other things that might need to be attached to the bedposts—which would begin on night five, if all went according to the calendar.
Piper had piled her bed with ivory silk sheets, pillowcases, and accent pillows. She’d arranged scented candles in the bedroom and bath. The nightstand held a book of erotic poetry and a few DVDs Brenna said were clinically proven to increase arousal, though if that kiss in the bookstore was any indication, Piper doubted they’d need it. She’d also topped the bed with a fluffy satin comforter. She’d purchased a fluffy white flokati throw rug that felt like mink under her bare feet. She’d folded fluffy new towels and washcloths in the bathroom. Piper suddenly panicked—was it too much? Had she reached a fluffiness critical mass in here?
“What’s on Friday’s menu?” Brenna asked.
Piper shook her head in an effort to stay focused. She followed Brenna into the living room, also newly jazzed up with colorful scarf throws, jewel-toned toss pillows, two new lamps, and a fireplace filled with four tiers of tea lights to provide that romantic glow in the middle of a heat wave.
“Champagne, of course,” Piper said. “We’ll start with an avocado, tomato, and basil salad, then move on to linguine with scallops, followed by juicy sliced papaya and mango and a dark chocolate mousse with fresh whipped cream.”
One of Brenna’s brows arched. “That oughta do it,” she said. “What’s the schedule leading up to the big night?”
Piper consulted her smartphone. “We’re having tea after the staff meeting tomorrow. Tuesday and Wednesday we’re doing lunch. Thursday I’ve begged off—too much work. And that brings us to Friday, and the first sin. Of course, all Mick knows is that he’s agreed to put himself in my hands for seven nights in a row, but he’s probably thinking more along the lines of movies and quaint restaurants and walks in the park.”
Brenna emitted a soft hmm. “Too bad you can’t take the week off from work—you know, use the daytime to recuperate from your nights of debauchery.”
Piper collapsed into the armchair and laughed. “I wasn’t kidding about having too much work to do!” She looked up at Brenna, a bit sheepishly. “I think I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a situation, actually.”
Her friend gathered up the purring Miss Meade and stroked the cat behind her ears, raising her eyebrows at Piper. “What kind of situation?”
Piper tossed her smartphone and notebook to the coffee table. “I’m going for it, Brenna. I’m telling Ophelia’s story. All of it. I can’t be worried about whether I’ll lose my job or scandalize the trustees.”
Brenna’s eyes widened.
“I couldn’t live with myself if I created an installation that merrily skipped over my discovery. The facts are the facts.” Piper sighed. “Besides, I owe her one.”
Brenna reached back and caught herself as she fell onto the couch, a move that was not to Miss Meade’s liking. The cat wiggled her way free, hit the floor, and ran off. “How?” Brenna asked breathlessly. “They’ll never go for it.”
“I know they won’t, and my mock-up is supposed to be in their hands in ten days.”
“So how—”
“The proposal will be a dummy, similar in design and interactive elements but with completely different content than the real exhibit.”
Brenna’s mouth fell open.
“Something like this is way too radical for the trustees, and LaPaglia would have a coronary at the mere suggestion. So I have no choice but to sneak it in behind their backs.”
“Holy shit, Piper.”
�
�I know,” she said, shaking her head. “I surprise myself more every day.”
Sixteen
“Come in,” she breathed.
Mick stepped inside the apartment. Piper—magnificent in a short, clingy black halter dress and heels—reached for his hand. She tugged him closer, tangled her fingers in his hair, and kissed him sweetly.
Jaysus H.—he nearly dumped the chocolate potato cake on the floor.
“Here. I’ll put this on the counter.” When Piper relieved him of the pretty, doily-lined cake plate, Mick suddenly appreciated Emily’s assistance in the kitchen. Cullen’s wife had been horrified to learn he planned to bake a cake for a girl and deliver it in a square metal pan.
“It’s so pretty!” Piper said, carrying it off to the kitchen. Mick licked his lips and stared at her mostly bare back, the dress scooped tight and low across her hips, her legs long and shapely. He began to salivate, and it had nothing to do with the savory aroma of a home-cooked meal.
“This is thoughtful of you,” she said from the kitchen.
He was about to reply when he felt someone giving him the stink eye. He turned to see a rotund gray tabby cat perched on the back of a wing chair, tail swirling.
“Oh, that’s Miss Meade,” Piper said, returning to the living room. “Ignore her. She’s a she-devil.”
Mick raised an eyebrow, suddenly aware of the nature of the trap he’d just entered. It was a vixen’s lair if ever he saw one—silky and colorful and strewn with candles, a gleaming table set for two, the bedroom door left ajar and hinting at a bed worthy of a harem girl.
His curious gaze moved to Piper and her glossy lips, succulent cleavage, and round hips. That look in her eye told him she knew exactly what she was doing.
She was an enchantress, and Mick was falling under her spell. Happily. Enthusiastically. The only thing that bothered him was how different Piper seemed from the girl with the duct-taped eyeglasses and ink-stained lips from just a couple weeks before. Where had she gone?
“Would you like something to drink?” She gestured to the pillow-strewn sofa and the coffee table set with champagne flutes, an ice bucket, and a bottle of what looked like good stuff.
“Are you trying to seduce me, Piper Chase-Pierpont?”
She laughed, throwing back her head. Her shiny hair went cascading down her nearly bare back, her eyes sparkled, and she dragged her fingertips down the length of her own neck.
Fuck me.
Aside from that silent declaration, Mick’s mind had gone blank.
* * *
She fed Mick another slice of mango, slipping her fingers just beyond his lips and into his hot mouth, the fruit’s juices dripping down her arm. She watched him chew, his blue eyes incandescent with lust.
That’s when Mick grabbed her wrist and licked the inside of her forearm, from the crook of her elbow to her wrist.
Piper knew it was time. His belly was full. His head was buzzing with champagne. He’d been touching her every opportunity he got. Things were moving at a perfect pace.
She leaned toward him, aware that her bosom was about to spill from her dress. I’ve become such a tart! “Do you want me, Mick?” she whispered.
His lips twitched but he said nothing, and a sharp panic raced through her. She’d never even considered he might say no. What would she do with all the whipped cream?
“I’ve wanted you for a long, long time,” he finally answered, which sent relief flooding through her.
“Good.” Piper stood, her belly directly in his line of sight, showcased nicely in tight black knit. “Why don’t you pick out some music for us? I’ll be just a minute.”
Piper strutted on her heels toward her bedroom, knowing his eyes were glued to her behind, then shut the door without a backward glance. Once inside, her knees buckled and she began to slide down the inside of the door.
This was no fantasy. She was really going to do this. In moments, Mick Malloy’s hands and mouth would be all over her and she’d be returning the favor. Piper would finally be getting what she’d been denied for too long. How in the world was she going to keep her head screwed on straight?
Focus, she told herself. She was the one who had to set the pace and direct the passion. It was up to her to establish the rules for the rest of the week.
With a deep breath, Piper pulled herself to her feet and went to the closet. As she took off her dress and put on the evening’s costume selection, her hands began to shake. What was it that the Swan had said to Ophelia? Oh yes …
“Don’t think of it as nerves. Think of it as the hot fuse that lights the fireworks—flame to gunpowder.”
* * *
The candles were lit. The lights were dimmed. The bed was turned down. She heard Marvin Gaye (oh God, no) floating from the living room speakers.
Forget the nerves—Piper was scared to death.
Lust, she reminded herself. The First Sin of the Courtesan was lust, so lust was to be the theme of the evening. Her goals would be simple: drive Mick mad with desire, break down his barriers with visual teasing, wild dirty talk and mad skills, tease him until he begged for release, then, finally, give it to him.
She’d stashed a cheat sheet in the bedside table, just in case.
Piper took one last glance at herself in the new bedroom mirror, making sure the contraption was laced tight enough to accentuate her waist but remained loose enough to draw air. If she passed out, she wanted the cause to be an overabundance of orgasms, not a lack of oxygen.
She ran her hands down her hips and studied herself. This was one of seven lingerie combinations Brenna had helped her select, one for each theme night. She’d advised Piper to start off soft and feminine so she’d have some room to branch out as she approached the latter—and wilder—sins. Piper had to admit that Brenna possessed an expert eye for these things.
Tonight’s selection, a pink jacquard corset with white satin trim, was chosen for its sweet and dainty quality. But the attached garters, matching thong, sheer white thigh-highs, and the extreme low-cut boobalicious design of the ensemble were anything but. Piper turned her head to examine the sparkle of her dangly gold filigree earrings. She fluffed her long, loose hair. She slipped into her white, three-inch-high kitten slippers topped with little dollops of snowy feathers.
Piper crawled onto the bed. She situated herself in the middle of the gauzy paradise. Bent one knee. Spread her hair out on the pillows. Tossed an arm over her head.
“Mick?” she called, hoping her carefully planned summons would be audible through the closed door and over Mr. Gaye’s familiar lament that he was hot just like an oven. “Could you come in and help me with something?”
She waited. One second. Two. Three.
Where was the man?
Then the door opened.
Seventeen
London, 1818
The jewel-toned parlor of my beloved little house
My darling Robert left England, sailing away to his new diplomatic post in Copenhagen. After our five years together, I shed more than a few tears at his going but that did not sway my decision to stay behind.
Poor Robert. He begged so prettily to wed me. He was such a fine young man, gentle and sweet and intelligent. He would go far in the world and no doubt do great things. He had dreams of high rank and courtly glory and I believed him more than capable of achieving them.
Yet, no matter how I had enjoyed the process of building his career and playing hostess to some of the most powerful political names in England, those were his dreams, not mine. I had not established myself so securely in this marvelously liberated world merely to shackle myself into marriage in the end!
So, once I had waved my handkerchief most sincerely at his parting ship and spent my tears into it after, I returned to my house and sent a message to the Swan.
She joined me promptly, sweeping elegantly into my comfortable parlor followed by her maid, Elise, who carried a hamper. “I bear claret and chocolates,” the Swan announced with playful grandeur, �
�to help you through this trying time.”
We indulged ourselves quite shamelessly with wine, confections, and confessions. This ritual dissection of the affair was sometimes my favorite part!
She sent me a considering glance. “You do not seem heartbroken.”
“Should I be?”
The Swan shrugged gracefully. “I had thought you quite enamored of him. Your devotion never wavered, despite all those lucrative offers.”
I smiled. “I adored Robert. Yet our days—and glorious nights!—were never meant to last forever. We both knew that.” I did not tell the Swan everything. I did not tell her how the last year had been tainted by Robert’s injured feelings. I had refused his offer of marriage then as well and had begged him to speak no more of it. Robert pretended to be a man of the world, but that injury to his romantic heart had never entirely disappeared. There had been silences and, sometimes, hard words.
The entire affair had, in my mind, become rather too much like a marriage. He resented my refusal and I resented the inclination to feel guilty, simply for being precisely as advertised.
We had parted with tears and protestations of deep feeling, but deep down, I believe we were both relieved. I wanted no part of such emotional exploitation. I wanted only the freedom to live as I chose, and to love whom and when I chose.
The very notion of such ownership left me feeling quite violently allergic.
Then the Swan announced that it was time to assess the jewels. I rather unsteadily fetched my jewel case and spilled its bounty into her waiting lap. After tossing back the rest of her glass of wine, the Swan fished a jeweler’s loupe from deep within her bodice and held it to her eye. “Hmm.”
I sprawled on a cushion and watched with great amusement. Her pithy commentary was more entertaining than any theater performance.
“Aren’t you pretty?” she cooed to an emerald ring. “You ought to keep that one.” She rummaged further. “Oh heavens, how dreary.” It was a necklace of jet. “Did he peel this off his grandmother’s dead throat, do you think? I forbid you to wear it until you are at least eighty! Better still, sell it at once. Aha, a sapphire bracelet!” She waved it drunkenly at me. “You don’t look nearly as good in blue stones as I do. Shall I trade you a ruby for it? It’s quite rosy, a perfect match for your nipples. Yes? Excellent. Sweet heaven, what is this?”
A Courtesan’s Guide to Getting Your Man Page 16
