“From us to you.”
“Happy birthday, buddy. We cared enough to send the very best.”
One final shove pitched her against him. She bumped into a muscular chest. A strong arm encircled her before she could fall, and she caught a faint whiff of scotch. She tried to pull away, but he hadn’t yet made up his mind to release her, so that proved impossible.
Her sudden helplessness was frightening. He stood nearly a head taller than she, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lean, conditioned body. She had to force herself not to struggle to get free because she knew he would crush her if he sensed her weakness.
An image flashed through her mind, of her body naked beneath his, and she immediately pushed it away. If she thought about that part of it, she wouldn’t have a prayer of pulling this off.
His cupped hand slid up her arm. “Well, now, I don’t think I ever got a birthday present quite like this one. You guys got more tricks up your sleeve than a deer’s got ticks.”
The sound of that deep, country drawl immediately steadied her. He might have the body of a warrior, but he was only a football player, and not a very intelligent one at that. The knowledge of her own superior brainpower gave her enough confidence to look up into those pale eyes as he slowly released the grip that held her captive.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Bonner.” She had intended her voice to sound sultry, but instead it sounded professorial, as if she were greeting a student who’d slipped into class late.
“He’s Cal,” Junior said. “It’s short for Calvin, but I’d advise you not to call him that because it pisses him off big time, and making the Bomber mad isn’t something I’d recommend. Cal, this is Rose. Rose Bud.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You guys brought me a stripper?”
“That’s exactly what I thought, but she’s not. She’s a hooker.”
Distaste flickered across his expression, then disappeared. “Well, now, I thank y’all a whole lot for thinkin’ about me, but I’m gonna have to pass.”
“You can’t do that, Cal,” Junior protested. “We all know how you feel about hookers, but Rose, here, ain’t your ordinary street corner whore. Hell, no. She’s a real classy whore. Her family came over on the Mayflower or something. Tell him, Rose.”
She was so busy trying to absorb the fact that she—Dr. Jane Darlington, a respected physicist with only one lover in her past—was being called a whore that it took her a moment to muster a haughty response. “A Bud served with Miles Standish.”
Chris glanced toward Melvin. “I know him. Didn’t he play for the Bears back in the eighties?”
Melvin laughed. “Damn, Chris, did you spend any time in the classroom while you were in college?”
“I was playing ball. I didn’t have time for that shit. Besides, we’re not talking about that now. We’re talking about the fact that it’s the Bomber’s birthday, we got him the best freakin’ present money could buy, and he wants to freakin’ pass!”
“It’s because she’s too old,” Willie exclaimed. “I told you we should have gone for somebody younger, but y’all kept sayin’ how she wasn’t supposed to remind him of Kelly. She’s only twenty-four, Cal. Honest.”
Just like that, she’d lost another year.
“You can’t pass.” Chris stepped forward, a belligerent look in his eyes. “She’s your birthday present. You got to fu—er—bonk her.”
Her skin grew hot, and since she couldn’t be caught blushing, she turned away and pretended to study the living room. Its low-pile white carpet, gray sectional sofa, stereo equipment, and large-screen television were expensive but uninteresting. She noticed various containers tossed down on the carpet: a plastic cup, a KFC bucket, an empty cereal box. In addition to being a hayseed, Mr. Bonner was a slob, but since messiness wasn’t genetic, it didn’t concern her.
He flipped the golf putter he’d been holding from one hand to the other. “Tell you what, guys. People exchange presents all the time. How about I trade her in for a steak dinner?”
He couldn’t do that! She would never find anyone more perfect to father her child.
“Shit, Bomber, she cost a hell of a lot more than a steak dinner!”
She wondered how much. Junior had handed her the money, which she’d tucked into her purse without looking, then slid under the front seat of her car. First thing tomorrow, she’d donate every dollar to the college scholarship fund.
He drained the liquor in his glass. “I appreciate the thought, guys, but I guess I just don’t feel like having a whore tonight.”
Anger hit her like a molecular collision. How dare he talk about her like that! Her emotions sometimes betrayed her, but her mind seldom did, and now it was shouting at her to do something. She couldn’t give up this easily. He was ideal, and somehow she had to find a way to make him change his mind. Yes, he was physically terrifying, and she didn’t believe he would be a gentle lover, but a few minutes rough handling wouldn’t kill her, and hadn’t she chosen him because he was her opposite in every way?
“Aw, come on, Bomber,” Willie said. “She’s hot. I’m getting hard just looking at her.”
“Then take her.” Bonner jerked his head toward the hallway. “You know where the spare bedroom is.”
“No!”
They all turned to stare at her.
She thought of his cornpone accent and reminded herself that he wasn’t anything more than a simpleminded football player. The pills gave her courage. All she had to do was outwit him. “I’m not a piece of meat that gets passed around. I work under exclusive contract, and my contract calls for me to practice my craft only with Mr. Bonner.” Avoiding his eyes, she looked toward the other men. “Why don’t you gentlemen leave now so he and I can discuss this privately?”
“Yeah, why don’t we do that,” Melvin said. “Come on, guys.”
He didn’t have to convince them. They rushed toward the foyer with a speed that was at odds with their size.
Melvin turned back to her at the last minute. “We expect our money’s worth, Rose. You give Bomber the works, you hear? Anything he wants.”
She gulped and nodded. A moment later, the front door slammed shut.
She and the man they called the Bomber were alone.
Chapter Three
Jane watched the Stars’ quarterback refill his glass from a bottle sitting on the coffee table. As he raised the tumbler to his lips, he studied her with pale piercing eyes that looked as if they could carry out a scorched-earth campaign all by themselves.
She had to come up with some way to seduce him before he threw her out, but what? She could simply strip off her clothes, but since her small-breasted body wasn’t exactly pinup quality, that might be the quickest way to get thrown out. Besides, it was hard to get enthusiastic about undressing in front of a stranger who was standing in a fully lit room that had a wall of curtainless windows. When she’d envisioned the nudity part of this, she’d imagined someplace very dark.
“You might as well go on with ’em, Rosebud. I believe I told you I ain’t much for hookers.”
His atrocious grammar renewed her commitment. With every one of his linguistic mistakes, her unborn child’s IQ dropped another few points.
She stalled for time. “I’ve always found it inadvisable to stereotype any group of people.”
“You don’t say.”
“Condemning a person solely on the basis of ethnicity, religion, or even that person’s professional activities is illogical.”
“Is that so? What about murderers?”
“Murderers aren’t, strictly speaking, a cohesive group, so it’s hardly the same thing.” She knew that engaging him in a debate probably wasn’t the best method of turning him on, but she was a much better debater than seducer, and she couldn’t resist driving her point home. “America was founded on principles of ethnic diversity and religious freedom, yet blind prejudice has caused most of the evils in our society. Don’t you find that ironic?”
“Are you trying to
tell me it’s my patriotic duty as a loyal son of Uncle Sam to show you the cracks in my bedroom ceiling?”
She started to smile until she saw by his expression that he was serious. In the face of such blessed brainlessness, her unborn child’s IQ took another welcome tumble downward.
For a moment, she weighed the morality of deliberately manipulating someone so dull-witted, not to mention deficient in humor, but her need for the services of his warrior’s body won out over her principles. “Yes, I suppose in a way it is.”
He upended his tumbler. “All right, Rosebud. I guess I’m drunk enough to give you a chance before I throw you out. G’wan and show me what you got.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Let’s see the goods.”
“The goods?”
“Your body. Your bag of tricks. How long you been a hooker, anyway?”
“It’s— Uh… Actually, you’re my first client.”
“Your first client?”
“Please don’t let that alarm you. I’ve been very well trained.”
His face tightened and she remembered his distaste for prostitutes, a fact that made this particular charade all the more difficult to carry off. When she’d pointed this out, Jodie had brushed it aside by saying that his teammates were going to get him drunk, and he wouldn’t be as particular. But although Jane could see that he was imbibing, he didn’t look very drunk.
Once again, she would have to lie. Maybe it was the pills, but she seemed to be getting a better grip on the whole process. It was simply a matter of inventing a new reality, embellishing it with a few pertinent details, and doing her best to retain eye contact throughout the process. “You’re probably from the old school, Mr. Bonner, that still believes women in my profession can only get their training in one way, but that’s not true any longer. I, for example, am not promiscuous.”
His glass stalled in midair. “You’re a hooker.”
“True. But I think I mentioned that you’re my first client. Up until now I’ve only been intimate with one man. My late husband. I happen to be a widow. A very young widow.”
He didn’t look as if he were buying any of this, so she began to embellish. “My husband’s death left me in terrible debt, and I needed something that paid better than minimum wage. Unfortunately, with no marketable skills, I didn’t have many choices. Then I remembered that my husband had always complimented me on the intimate aspects of our marriage. But please don’t think that just because I’ve only had one partner, I’m not highly qualified.”
“Maybe I’m missin’ something, but I don’t rightly see how somebody who claims to have had—What’d you say? One partner?—can be well trained.”
He had a point. Her brain clicked away. “I was referring to the instructional videotapes my agency has all its new employees watch.”
“They train you by watching videos?” His eyes narrowed, reminding her of a hunter looking down a gun sight. “Now, ain’t that interesting.”
She felt a little surge of pleasure as her child lost another few points on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. Even a computer couldn’t have picked a more perfect match.
“They’re not ordinary videos. Nothing you’d want an impressionable child to see. But the old methods of on-the-job training aren’t practical in our current era of safe sex, at least not for the more discriminating agencies.”
“Agencies? Are you talking about whorehouses?”
Each time she heard that repellent word it stung a bit more. “The politically correct term is ‘pleasure agency.’ ” She paused. Her head felt as if it were floating off her shoulders. “Just as prostitutes are better referred to as sexual pleasure providers or SPPs.”
“SPPs? You sure are a reg’lar encyclopedia.”
It was curious, but his accent seemed to be growing thicker by the minute. It must be the liquor. Thank goodness he was too dull-witted to realize how outlandish this conversation had become. “We have slide shows and guest lecturers who discuss their various specialties with us.”
“Like what?”
Her mind raced. “Uh… Role playing, for example.”
“What kind of role playing?”
What kind, indeed? Her mind shuffled through various scenarios, searching for one that didn’t involve physical pain or degradation. “Well, we have something we call Prince Charming and Cinderella.”
“What’s that like?”
“It involves… roses. Making love on a bed of rose petals.”
“Sounds a little too girly to appeal to me. You got anything spicier to offer?”
Why had she mentioned role playing? “Of course, but since you’re my first customer, I think I can give you more value if we stick to the basics.”
“Missionary stuff?”
She gulped. “My current specialty.” He didn’t look too excited by the prospect, although his face showed so little expression, it was hard to tell. “That, or—I think I might have a talent for being the—uh—the partner on top.”
“Well, I guess you’ve just about overcome my prejudice against hookers.”
“Sexual pleasure providers.”
“Whatever. But the thing of it is, you’re a little old for me.”
Old! That really frosted her. He was thirty-six, but he had the nerve to regard a woman of twenty-four as old! Maybe it was her floating head, but the fact that she wasn’t really twenty-four no longer made a difference. It was the principle that counted.
She mustered a look of sympathy. “I’m sorry, I must have misunderstood. I assumed you were able to handle a grown woman.”
Whatever he was swallowing went down the wrong pipe and he choked.
Feeling decidedly malicious, she gestured toward his telephone. “Would you like me to call the office and have them send out Punkin’? If she has her homework done, she should be available.”
He stopped coughing long enough to level her with a sonic blast from those eyes. “You’re not twenty-four. Both of us know you’re not a day under twenty-eight. Now go ahead and show me what you learned from those training films about warm-up activities. If you catch my interest, maybe I’ll reconsider.”
More than anything, she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she wouldn’t let her indignation, no matter how justified it might be, keep her from her goal. How could she entice him? She hadn’t given any consideration to foreplay, assuming he would simply get on top of her, perform the deed, and roll off the way Craig had done it.
“What kind of warm-up activities have you preferred in the past?”
“Did you bring any Reddi Whip with you?”
She could feel herself blushing. “No, I didn’t.”
“How ’bout handcuffs?”
“No!”
“Dang. I guess it really don’t matter then. I’m open-minded.” He lowered himself into the room’s largest armchair and waved a hand vaguely in her direction. “You go on there, Rosebud, and—whadyacall—improvise. I’ll prob’ly like whatever you come up with.”
Maybe she could do a seductive dance for him. She was a good dancer in private, but in public she tended to be awkward and self-conscious. Perhaps she could do a routine from one of her aerobics classes, although between her demanding work schedule and the fact that she preferred brisk walking as an exercise form, she usually dropped out before the session was over. “If you’d like to put on some of your favorite music…”
“Sure.” He got up and walked over to the stereo cabinet. “I think I might have some highbrow stuff. I bet a SPS such as yourself loves longhair music.”
“SPP.”
“Isn’t that what I said?” He slipped a compact disc into the machine, and as he resumed his seat, the living room was filled with the lively music of Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Flight of the Bumblebee.” A piece with such a frenzied tempo was hardly her idea of seductive music, but what did she know?
She performed a few shoulder rolls from the warm-up part of her aerobics class and tried to look sultry, but the quick pac
e of the music made it difficult. Still, the chemicals surging through her bloodstream spurred her on. She added some side stretches, ten on the right and then ten on the left so she wouldn’t get lopsided.
Her hair brushed her cheeks as she moved in a manner that she could only hope was alluring, but as he watched her with those scorched-earth eyes, she couldn’t see any evidence that he was getting swept away with lust. She thought about touching her toes, but that didn’t seem like a very graceful dance movement. Besides, she couldn’t reach them without bending her knees. Inspiration struck.
One. Two. Three. Kick!
One. Two. Three. Kick!
He crossed his legs and yawned.
She experimented with a small hula routine.
He glanced at his watch.
It was hopeless. She stopped and let the bumblebee fly on without her.
“And here I was waitin’ for you to get to the jumpin’ jacks part.”
“I don’t dance well with people watching.”
“Guess you should have spent a little more time with them training videos. Or a couple of old John Travolta movies.” He got up and walked over to lower the volume on the music. “Can I be honest with you here, Rosebud?”
“Please.”
“You’re not turnin’ me on.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Let me give you a little extra for your time.”
She could barely resist the urge to cry, despite the fact that she wasn’t a crier by nature. He was going to kick her out, and she would have lost her best chance to have the child of her dreams. Desperation made her voice husky. “Please, Mr. Bonner. You can’t dismiss me.”
“I sure can.”
“You’ll… You’ll get me fired. The Stars’ account is a very important one to my agency.”
“If it’s so damned important, why did they send you? Anybody can see you don’t know diddly about being a hooker.”
“There’s a—a convention in town. They were shorthanded.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is… I ended up with you by default.”
She nodded. “And if they find out you weren’t satisfied with my services, they’ll fire me. Please, Mr. Bonner, I need this job. If they dismiss me, I’ll lose my benefits.”
Nobodys Baby But Mine Page 4