The Talented Mr. Maxwell

by Julia Harlow

  Okay. A swanky club in London. What the blast does one wear? She Googled “Pippa Middleton” on her laptop and scrolled through the zillion photos until she found one that might do. Right before she left for this trip, she’d stopped in a boutique near her office to see if she could find a cocktail dress in case she needed to attend an evening event on this trip. The saleswoman had convinced her to buy this little slip of a thing that hugged every curve of her very curvy body. Dorrie couldn’t believe dresses like that even came in a size fourteen.

  After applying eyeliner, mascara, blush, and lip gloss, she brushed her hair forward with her head hanging down and approved of the results she saw reflected in the mirror when she flipped her head back: a mane of full, golden-brown waves. The dress was another matter. She’d forgotten how difficult it was to get into with no zipper and clinging like Saran wrap, but she eventually managed to wriggle into it.

  She’d probably never shown so much skin before in her life, apart from when she’d worn a bathing suit. Between earning a BA in English Literature and a Master’s in Journalism while working part-time as an au pair and at the perfume counter at Nordstrom’s to defray tuition costs, she hadn’t had much of a chance to go clubbing. She slid into strappy black heels.

  She’d never tried to alter her full-figure by dieting because she came from solid Kentucky pioneer stock and knew she couldn’t change her genes. Besides, she enjoyed having curves and looking womanly. She pulled the dress up to cover some of her cleavage but only succeeded in exposing more of her thighs. Dorrie was nothing if not resourceful, so she plucked up a black-and-green paisley shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  After she stashed her room key, lip gloss, and credit card in her evening clutch, she checked the room clock: nine thirty. Had he gotten tired of waiting and left? Oh well, she’d have a drink alone and come back early.

  She stopped at the concierge desk to ask how far Bumble’s was from the hotel. A grandfatherly-looking gentleman named Ian, who smelled slightly of pipe tobacco, told her it was just a block away. He accompanied her to the front of the hotel to direct her, adding that the club was so exclusive it didn’t have front signage. When he smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkled and gave her a warm feeling. She wondered briefly how she’d get in if the club were so exclusive. Would they turn her away?

  The clicking of her heels could barely be heard over the traffic din. Black London cabs, red double-decker buses on nighttime tours, and a myriad of passenger vehicles jammed the streets. Diesel exhaust from the buses should have bothered her, but instead, she reveled in the smell because she associated it with the excitement and adventure of big cities. She clutched the shawl tighter as the cool evening air whipped around her and peered into the lighted windows of the gorgeous Georgian buildings she passed, wondering who lived there.

  The entrance to Bumble’s was only a few minutes away from the Westbury. Two men in dark three-piece suits manned the front entrance. She stopped short, twisting the end of the shawl in her fingers. She wasn’t a member and didn’t want the embarrassment of being turned away. What made her think she could get into an exclusive club? She decided to return to the Westbury and have a glass of wine in the lounge, but before she’d taken two steps in the direction of the hotel, one of the men called over, “Miss Applegate?”

  She turned back to face him. “Yes?” With a phone pressed to his ear, he said, “Wait a moment, please.” Just then, Henry Charles practically burst through the front door.

  “Miss Applegate! So glad you could make it.”

  She wondered if the wattage of that smile could light up all of Buckingham Palace. It certainly lit her up. She’d thought the only reason he’d invited her this evening was because he felt sorry for her being alone in London. But now, the way his eyes lingered on her, taking her in from golden-brown waves to black stilettos, she wasn’t so sure.

  Dressed in a stylish tweed suit complete with a silk tie, a pocket square, and snazzy shoes, he looked dapper and even more of a knockout than she’d remembered. And he was big. She knew he was tall when they’d walked through the airport, but now he seemed to tower over her.

  Henry cupped her elbow and led her through the front doors and into the cool, dim atmosphere of Bumble’s. A honey-smooth male voice crooned Tony Bennett-like from a small stage surrounded by dark-suited musicians. After they’d been seated at a table, Henry cleared his throat and said, “You look fantastic, Dorrie. May I take your wrap for you?”

  She clutched it even tighter around her chest, feeling a little too exposed. “I’m a bit chilly, so I think I’ll keep it on for now.”

  “Sure. What would you like to drink?” Before he’d even raised his hand halfway to signal a server, one was at the table. “Yes, sir, what may I bring you?”

  Although Dorrie felt out of her element, she was determined to rise to the occasion. When in Bumble’s, just like when in Rome, right? “I would love a Bacardi cocktail, please.” She gingerly placed her clutch on the edge of the table.

  Henry ordered some sort of fancy Scotch she’d never heard of. He rubbed his jaw with long fingers and regarded her. “So, how was the rest of your afternoon?”

  “I took a shower and then pretty much crashed. How about you?”

  He chuckled. “The same. You know we’re supposed to force ourselves to stay up, don’t you?”

  “As bad as I felt, that was never going to happen.” The server brought their drinks, and Henry lifted his tumbler of rich amber liquid.

  “Here’s to your stay in London.” They clinked glasses and each took a sip. “By the way, what business brings you here?”

  “I’m not trying to be evasive, but I’d rather not talk about business tonight.” She sipped her delicious pink cocktail, savoring the fruitiness with a distinct hit of rum, and relaxed for the first time in ages.

  “Have you had dinner?”

  “Does a granola bar and pineapple juice count?”

  “Definitely not.” He shook his head, grinning at her. “I didn’t have a chance to eat, either, so let’s have dinner.”

  Dorrie fidgeted in her seat. “I was just going to have a drink and get back early to finish up some work.”

  “You’re dressed up looking like a million bucks on what I assume is your first night ever in London, and you’re seriously going to leave after one drink? You work too hard; I know that first-hand from observing you on the plane. Stay and have dinner with me, please?”

  His appeal was so genuine, and something in the way he regarded her made her think he was not only shy but also modest, ridiculous given his drop-dead glam looks. But she went with her instincts.

  “All right. We’ll have dinner. But it will have to be Dutch.”

  “Sorry, Dorrie, I’m a member here and they bill me. You can take me out for coffee or ice cream while you’re here.” He grinned at her before motioning for menus.

  She blinked several times to make sure she wasn’t dreaming that she was in Bumble’s with the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. She couldn’t imagine that he didn’t cause a riot wherever he went.

  He reached inside his jacket and pulled out dark-framed glasses, slipping them on and then opening his menu. Dorrie was agog. He looked even more gorgeous wearing glasses, if that were possible.

  The heat spreading through her body made her shrug the shawl off her shoulders and take another sip of her cocktail. She ran her fingertips up and down the sides of the cool glass.

  ~*~

  “They do a decent sole meunière here, and their asparagus with Hollandaise is spot on. What sounds good to—?” He glanced over at her and abruptly stopped mid-sentence. Without the shawl covering her, he could see that this was a real woman, not the skinny, hard bodies that seemed to be everywhere he went. He knew he shouldn’t stare at her, but it couldn’t be helped. Her skin was as smooth and as white as daisy petals. The jade-green color of her dress contrasted warmly with her pale skin and golden-brown hair. And what was in that dress sho
uld be illegal: full, plump breasts, smallish waist, and lovely, round hips. No diet-obsessed stick figure here. Oh, God. He thought about asking her to put the shawl back on so his brain could function again. But, no, he just couldn’t do it.

  “Henry?” Hearing her voice forced him to drag his eyes to hers.

  “I apologize for ogling, Dorrie, but that dress on you, or rather you in that dress, is something to behold.” He squirmed in an attempt to surreptitiously adjust himself.

  “I was worried about that when I put it on. It’s too bare, isn’t it?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant. You look absolutely fantastic.”

  Just then her stomach growled. Loudly.

  He laughed. “I think we’d better order. What sounds good?”

  “I’d like the sole and asparagus. They sound wonderful.”

  He ordered for them and sat back to gaze at her some more, making her feel self-conscious.

  “This singer is wonderful,” Dorrie said.

  “Isn’t he brilliant? I’m a diehard Tony Bennett fan and wanted to come tonight. They’re doing a tribute to all his recordings.” Just then the band started the opening notes to “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

  He held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  “My dancing’s a little rusty. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

  “All you have to do is sway back and forth. Come on. This is a great tune to sway to.”

  The moment he pulled her to him, he knew he had never felt anything so wonderful in his life. Her body melded to his and fit him perfectly. It was as if he had known her forever; she was his other half. The singer threw everything he had into the song, and when Henry held Dorrie closer, she tucked her head against his shoulder. He felt her take a deep breath and sigh. He wanted to stay like this all night, but the song ended, the audience applauded, and their dinner was being served.

  Dorrie perched on the edge of her chair, watching wide-eyed as the headwaiter effortlessly de-boned the sole tableside. Henry watched her inhale the buttery aroma, and her eyes fluttered closed. Everything about her was refreshing, even the way she relished the tableside display, an expression of undiluted delight on her face. His other female companions would have yawned with boredom, jaded as they were. That was the way he had begun to feel, not jaded exactly, but as if his life and career had hit a concrete wall. At thirty-four, he was already starting to feel old. Maybe it was all the young men nipping at his heels, reminding him daily that his was a young man’s vocation. Maybe it was time to start searching for something else. But what would that be?

  He was still watching Dorrie savor every bite, unhurriedly, even though he knew how hungry she was. No, she ate as though she never wanted the experience to end, cutting the asparagus into small pieces and artfully dredging each bite in the rich, tangy, yellow Hollandaise.

  Suddenly, she set down her knife and fork and stared at him. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  He shook his head as if to clear it and smiled over at her sweet face. “Oh, yes. I was just enjoying watching you so much that I forgot to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone relish food the way you do.”

  “This is the most delicious fish I’ve ever eaten in my life. Where I come from, most of the fish is deep-fried, and I promise you it’s definitely not sole.” The way she giggled after saying this took his breath away. Nothing fake or phony about her. She was obviously comfortable in her own skin, and he found that endearing.

  “Well, if you’re going to be in London awhile, you have a real treat in store for you. We have some fabulous restaurants here that I’d like to take you to. From what I’ve seen tonight, you’ll love the Italian fare, my personal favorite.”

  “I’m sure you can tell I love to eat, and I’m always game to try new foods. It’s just that I’ve been on such a tight budget for, well, forever, that eating out in nice restaurants hasn’t been a possibility.”

  “I certainly know about living on a tight budget.”

  “Really? You seem as though you come from a wealthy family.”

  “My parents are working class, and that’s how I grew up. They were able to put their knowledge and skills to work in the right market and started a business that eventually panned out. I was grown and gone by then, but I’m so proud of them for sticking with their ideas.”

  They finished their delicious meal and danced until midnight when Dorrie insisted she needed to leave.

  Chapter 2

  Henry escorted Dorrie back to the Westbury in the now quiet streets. Before they reached the front entrance, he took her hand in his.

  “I’ve had a lovely time this evening. Would it be forward of me to kiss you goodnight? I’ve wanted to kiss you all evening,” he said softly, smiling down at her and brushing his knuckles across her cheek.

  Before he realized what was happening, Dorrie stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him.

  One of his hands automatically clasped her waist, and the other gently cupped the back of her head. It started as a chaste kiss, his lips brushing hers. But then something happened. When her arms encircled his neck and she moaned, her body sagging against his, he felt a depth of passion he’d never felt before, as if he might die if he couldn’t have her. Since he knew this would never be a possibility with a woman like Dorrie, he forced himself to pull back, struggling for air.

  Dorrie gazed up into his deep blue eyes and, reaching up, slowly ghosted a finger over his forehead. He held still while she grazed her fingertips across his thick, dark brows, over his taut cheekbones, down the sharp planes of his face, and tenderly outlined his mouth. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open to accommodate his heavy breathing. She placed her hands on either side of his face and stretched up to whisper in his ear, “Would it be forward of me to invite you up to my room?”

  His eyes opened wide, and he stood stock still a second or two, blinking rapidly, wanting to be certain he’d heard her correctly. She reached up to brush her soft lips over his and then, before he registered what was happening, she gently pulled him by the hand toward the entrance.

  “Are you sure about this, Dorrie?”

  She just smiled and pulled him behind her. They rode up the elevator, holding hands and not taking their eyes off each other. Henry thought the cage of the elevator might spontaneously combust with the singeing heat passing between them.

  He’d barely closed the door to her room behind him when Dorrie dropped her shawl and clutch and reached for him.

  “May I undress you?” Her hands were already pushing his jacket off his shoulders.

  “Whatever you want.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so aroused. With his jacket off, he watched her hands slowly glide over his shoulders, lightly squeezing his muscles, and over his chest where she took her time exploring him through his white shirt. She untucked his shirt from his trousers and carefully, painstakingly slowly, unbuttoned each button. It seemed to him as if hours passed before she had his shirt and T-shirt off. He stood before her, bare-chested and fully aroused, and held his breath as her fingers unbuckled his belt and struggled to unzip him over the sizable bulge. She urged him back to sit on the bed and knelt to untie his shoes and pull them off along with his socks. Now he only wore black silk briefs.

  “Lie back on the bed.” Her cheeks were flushed, and he noticed her hands shaking as she straddled him, her spread thighs straining the fabric of her dress.

  “May I touch you?” He asked, his voice low and husky.

  “Not yet. I want to explore every inch of you first.” She cupped his face in her hands and leaned down to kiss him. This time they held nothing back, the pressure of his lips on hers caused her mouth to open, and his tongue thrust in, exploring the moist warmth of her mouth. He couldn’t stop himself from grasping her bottom and pinning her to him. She groaned as the length of his shaft made contact between her spread thighs.

  Panting, she pulled away and touched two fingers to his lips. “Let’s slow down a bit. You alr
eady know how much I like to savor things.”

  “Not sure how much longer I can take this, Dorrie. You feel so good.” His voice was hoarse as he flexed his pelvis into her, causing her to gasp.

  Shaking her head, she smiled down at him. “Just lie back and relax. You’ll like this. I promise.” With that, she traced his face with light fingertips then placed her palms on his chest. The feel of her soft, gentle hands on his bare skin made him tremble. She drew her hands back and forth deliberately and rubbed them over the muscles in his chest, exploring him, massaging him, and enjoying him. When she circled his tight nipples, he groaned. She worked her way down to his abdomen, tracing the hard ridges and grinning when he drew in a sharp breath. Even though his cock was straining against the fabric of his briefs, she scooted down in between his legs, passing the spot he wanted her to touch more than anything he’d ever wanted before in his life.

  While he panted, she worked the tight dress over her hips, her breasts, her shoulders, and finally, over her head, tossing it aside. “There, now I can move around.”

  He sucked in his breath. “Oh Christ.” If he’d thought he was aroused before, the sight of her in a lacy black bra and panties—all beautiful moon-white, smooth skin, and large breasts—had him spellbound. He didn’t know what to gaze at first: the little slip of fabric covering her crotch, her pert nipples pushing against the silky cups of her bra, the dip of her belly button, her luscious thighs, or her pouty mouth. She overloaded his senses. He was pretty sure he would come if her fingers moved anywhere near his cock.

  She knelt between his legs and began to trace the outline of his calf muscles, her fingertips tickling the skin on his legs.