"What are you up to?" she wanted to know.
He just grinned at her. "I'm putting your vow to obey me to the test. Put your hands behind your back and stand where you are."
"If you don't want me to be the Playboy centerfold, why don't you just make like a dictator and tell me I can't?"
"Because we're partners."
"Some partnership."
"Admittedly, on this occasion I seem to be the partner with the advantage, because you, my princess, don't have any clothes on."
"You think you're clever, don't you?"
"Clever enough to get you the way men's magazines want you." He patted her rump. She thanked him by kicking his shin.
"At least let me check my messages," she said. "Maybe a nice man has called me for a date."
He laughed. "Easy now, hurricane Betty-Jo. Keep thinking about the vow you made to obey me."
"I'm not a hurricane!"
"Perhaps not, but you've reminded me of a joke."
"And I'm not in the mood for a joke."
"'How is a married woman like a hurricane?'" She scowled at him. "'In the beginning, there's a lot of blowing and sucking. And in the end, they take your house away.'"
Annoyed as she was, a smile escaped her. Then it was retaliation time. "You know, Brad," she said, "people have the right to be insufferable. But you abuse that privilege."
Brad poured a glass of Earnest and Julio's finest red, and retrieved her favorite honey and garlic chicken wings from the fridge. He gave her a sip of wine, and put a chicken wing up to her lips, but she was only able to get a nibble before he took it away. "Keep your hands behind your back," he said as she made a grab for the retreating wing.
"Brad, I want to pose for Playboy. Why don't you want me to be the December centerfold?"
"Why do you think?"
"I don't know." She tried not to look petulant.
"Let's come at this from a different angle. Why do you want to pose for Playboy?"
"I think it would be interesting. That's all." Of course she knew that 'interesting' was not the real reason.
"Tawny Cat, the bad girl that was running around inside you has stopped running. Now she's causing trouble. I never should have set her free. She's fallen in love with being loved. When I told you last week that you were responsible for making thirty million men arrive, your eyes lit up like the lights on a Christmas tree—the flashing kind. Now you want to get to any men you may have missed on your first pass."
She hung her head, and bit at her lower lip. He's right. But how can I admit to something like that? "'Keep talking Brad.'", she said. "'Eventually you may say something intelligent.'"
"I'll do my best to say something intelligent right now. You, soon-to-be Ms Chance-Raiden, have me concerned. You want to do poor Goldilocks out of a job. Dressed only in your tawny locks, you want to cavort with the three bares, or perhaps it's Rudolph's job you're after. You'll be the Tawny Spirit of Christmas, butt-naked out in front of Santa's sleigh. Why can't you let the red nosed reindeer guide the sleigh and bring joy to the little girls and boys? Don't you have enough to do bringing joy to the big boys on the tennis courts?"
"That's intelligent? Have you taken your meds today?"
He hugged her. "It's marvelous that you're having fun turning on America's men, but you can't get carried away with it. You have to learn to pick your spots, and you have to develop a better understanding of men."
"I understand—without naming names—that some men are insufferable!"
Brad laughed at her. "True," he said. "But the important things that you need to know about men appear to have escaped you. Men love and want what they can't have. Down at the local convenience store there are racks of magazines full of butt-naked women. Sadly, men have tunnel vision when it comes to naked women. What they want to know is what Betty-Jo Chance looks like au naturel—how close does the real thing come to their fantasy? So they send their emissary, Playboy, Penthouse, or any other men's magazine, to get what they want."
She smiled at Brad. "And they could have it if you weren't wedded to wuss."
"Playboy is offering you a million bucks. But you're driving so many men so crazy that I'd be surprised if they don't up the anti to two or three mill before they give up."
"That's the first intelligent thing you've said all evening. We'll hold out for more money."
"What doing a spread for a men's mag will cost you is twenty, thirty, who knows how many millions, from companies that want you to endorse their products while looking like a sexy replica of the girl-next-door."
"Let me do the Playboy shoot, and your sexy girl-next-door replica will give you a nice reward." She moved her hips suggestively.
"You've been given a golden egg-laying goose, and you want to trade your goose for a for a few bucks so you can be naked in a centerfold. Mind you, it's possible that more money is irrelevant to you. As Hobart Brown said, 'Money doesn't always buy happiness. People with ten million dollars are no happier than people with nine million.'"
"That Hobart guy is a laugh and a half."
-60-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
A Tawny Exhibitionist
"You know, Tawny Enchantress," Brad said, "Cupid may be responsible for your exhibitionistic desires. He's fouled up before."
"What are you talking about?"
"I have a story for you—a story with a moral."
"I hate stories with morals."
"Even if the moral pertains to you?"
"Especially if it pertains to me."
"Do you know what Cupid did to Echo and Narcissus?"
"No. But it sounds as if you're about to tell me, and unfortunately, since I've promised to obey you, you have a captive audience."
Brad Tom Cruise grinned her. "Cupid was careless at times. One warm summer's day, he shot one of his arrows at a pretty nymph named Echo, as she was strolling through the woods. Then he went off in search for other lovers, forgetting that he had to find a mate for Echo."
Betty-Jo interrupted. "Reminds me of the time Cupid fouled up with Psyche, when he pricked himself with his own arrow."
"Echo had a peculiar affliction. She couldn't speak until somebody first spoke to her, but once spoken to, she couldn't remain silent."
"I knew I shouldn't have spoken to you about the Playboy offer."
He ran his hand over More Fun. "Echo came to a wide stream. On the other side was a gorgeous eighteen year old boy named Narcissus—she immediately fell in love with him."
"Like I fell for you?"
"Even quicker. Echo waded across the stream to declare her love, and her desire to marry Narcissus. But there was a problem—Narcissus didn't love her."
Betty-Jo frowned. "Cupid is beginning to annoy me."
"And Echo was beginning to annoy Narcissus. She was madly in love with him, and refused to leave. Before long, Narcissus was fed up. 'Go away. Why should I love you?' he shouted. Echo replied, 'I love you, I love you'. Narcissus yelled back, 'I would rather die than let you marry me!' Echo echoed his words. 'Marry me, marry me'. The echoing made Narcissus even angrier, and less inclined to love Echo." Betty-Jo frowned again. "Don't frown, Tawny Cat." Brad smoothed her forehead with his fingertips. "It wrinkles your natural beauty."
She gave him an even fiercer frown. "Why do I get the feeling that your story has an unhappy ending?"
"Because Cinderella isn't in it?"
"Could she be?"
He kissed her, and carried on with his story. "Fortunately, Cupid remembered that he had neglected to find a mate for Echo. So back he went, and there was Echo, fawning all over Narcissus. He, of course, was ignoring her. Cupid quickly shot Narcissus with one of his arrows, and flew off, satisfied that all was well."
"And all was well. Narcissus and Echo were married, and lived happily ever after."
"Hush, Tawny Cat, I'm telling the story. All was not well. Unfortunately, Narcissus was bending over a pool of still water when Cupid's arrow found its mark, so the first p
erson he saw was himself—his own refection in the water."
Fire danced in Betty-Jo's eyes. "Narcissus fell in love with himself, and you're implying that, like Narcissus, I've fallen in love with myself!"
He grinned at her. "You've always been a quick study." She glowered at him. "So do you want to hear the ending?"
"No!"
"As you've pointed out, vow practicing cat that you are, you're a captive audience. I think I'll continue. Echo eventually realized that Narcissus was so in love with himself that he could never love her. So she left him, and then she died of a broken heart. She just became thinner and thinner, until all that remained of her was her echo."
"You have a talent for butchering what could have been a wonderful love story."
"On occasion, when you shout, you'll hear Echo reply. She still can't shut up."
"Shut up, shut up!" Betty-Jo echoed.
Brad brushed back her hair, bit her on the nape of the neck, and carried on with his story. "Narcissus, meanwhile, couldn't leave the pool, because on days when it was calm, he could see the love of his life—himself. He also starved to death."
Betty-Jo made a face at Brad. "Your story sucks," she said.
He turned her around, and ran his hands over her. "Look in the mirror," he said. "You are sexy, hot and wonderful, even more so inside than out. And I'm thrilled that you like yourself. But there's a potential problem."
"I'm not in love with myself!"
"Not yet. But do you remember when it used to embarrass you to watch me play with you?"
"You have a point?"
"It doesn't embarrass you now."
The fire was alive and well in her eyes. "What is this? True Confessions time!"
"No. It's a pendulum that could swing you out over a pool of still water."
"Where, like Narcissus, I'll fall in love with myself."
"It won't happen if you remember your bear's name."
"I Love Only You Brad," said a chastened Betty-Jo.
"Do you still want to do the centerfold shoot?"
"No."
"Good—because now I can tell you the real reason why I don't want you to undress for Playboy. I don't want my soon-to-be wife revealing to the world what I want exclusively for myself."
She was pleased for the first time since the beginning of the centerfold discussion. "So you don't want your neighbors coveting your ass? That ass being me," she said.
"It's a little late for that. Not only my neighbors, but almost every man on this planet covets you—ass and all. There's a poem about a showgirl that describes what I want to guard against:
Her body was marvelous:
a miracle had fused it.
If I didn't know better, I'd swear that Joseph March was writing about you. But then he goes on to say:
The whole world had seen it—
And a good part had used it.
It's there that you and the showgirl have to part company. Only I get to see all of you, and use you."
"You are one self-centered, possessive...
Brad put his hand over her mouth. "Tawny Cat, I don't want a home with a mutual driveway, so why would I want a wife with one?"
"You know I don't have a mutual drive! Next you'll be telling me you don't want a wife with a freeway either!"
"Only for me. What I want is an express lane, that only I get to travel."
She smiled a little. "Well that's what you have."
"Good. But perhaps you should practice your vow to obey me a while longer. That way I can enjoy watching you while I get the wine and chicken wings."
* * *
Darn you, Brad, Betty-Jo thought, as she studied herself in the mirror. Everything she was wearing said Tawny Cat Chance belongs to Brad: her gold TC—for Tawny Cat—earrings, her gold wafer necklace, with the T-CAT imprint, her black velvet choker, Brad's initials in the heart-shaped tattoo around her beauty spot, and her flawless diamond and emerald engagement ring. 'A flawless beauty should have a flawless diamond,' he'd told her.
I'm a Brad Raiden billboard, she thought, a standing here naked declaration that I love and belong to him. She suddenly understood that Brad had dressed her—or more accurately, undressed her—the way he had on purpose. I will always love only Brad, and give myself only to him. And I do want to be obedient. But a perfectly obedient Tawny Cat is certain to be a boring Tawny Cat. I should never have made that vow. I'll bet that even his hockey stick isn't obedient all the time. Then she came to her senses. Nobody made you promise to obey him. And you'd better remember what your daddy taught you—a Tiger who makes a promise, is a Tiger who keeps a promise.
-61-
FELICITY READY
Payback Time
"Draper! Please don't hang up. I'm sorry. You've been so good to me. I know I never deserved you. I won't call you again, but I need my clothes. May I come over and pick them up?" Felicity wasn't interested in clothes, but she was very interested in sleeping with Draper Greely one last time.
"When?"
"Is this evening okay? Say six-thirty?"
"Sure. But make it quick."
"Thank you, Draper."
She arrived at Draper's apartment, dressed as provocatively as possible, and told the cabby to leave. Draper opened the door, and favored her with some I'm-too-good-for-you attitude.
"Why all tarted-up?" he said.
"I have a date at seven-thirty, and I'm afraid I wont have time to change for it."
"I have a few minutes to kill, so I've decided to give you a goodbye jump. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
She would, but not for any reason Draper could have imagined. The guy makes pond scum seem inviting, she thought. "Thank you, Draper. That would be nice."
Draper took her to the bedroom, and had her kneel on the bed. Then he flipped up her skirt, and yanked down her panties. "Spread your legs and brace yourself," he said.
I love it when he sweet-talks me, she thought, as Draper came at her from behind.
When he was finished with her, he shoved her onto the floor. "It'll be sloppy seconds for your date tonight," he said.
She smiled to herself, as she limped to the washroom.
Best ever for me, she thought, even though I'd rather have sex with a Roto-Rooter. It's not often that you get to screw a sickening bastard to death.
Felicity picked up the half-full bottle of 1,000 mg, timed-release, vitamin C tablets that she knew Draper kept in his medicine cabinet. The stinker's Right to Life membership is about to be revoked. She emptied the bottle, and dropped in the vitamin-C capsule she'd brought with her, the one that was short on vitamin C, but long on sodium cyanide. Then she returned the real vitamin-C capsules, and placed the bottle back on the shelf.
She smiled again, and savored her moment. 'Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, [Draper], and for the rest of your life.' All you have to do is remember to take your vitamins.
-62-
BETTY-JO CHANCE & BRAD RAIDEN
A Tawny Trophy
Betty-Jo's game was improving with each match she played. She was seeing the ball well, and hitting it with pace and confidence, thanks to the western grip, an oversized racquet head, superb conditioning, and the use of imagery. When she stepped onto the court, she was mentally tough, and focused. Before each match, she pictured a time when she felt fearless and invincible. The mental image she used most often was her tack-on-the-chair revenge on old-man Ducksworthy.
It gratified her to know, that she not only looked great, but that she was also playing tennis she could be proud of. "I'm going to win this championship," she told Brad.
It was Saturday, and she was playing in her first evening appearance on Stadium Court at the U.S. Open. She was into the third round, and about to reveal her outfit surprise to her eager fans. While she disliked pantyhose, sometimes it could show what stockings and garter belts couldn't. That was why she wore a gold aerobics body-top, that rode high on her hips, and revealed legs that, in their sheer black-patterned pantyhose, seeme
d to go on forever. She knew that men who loved leggy grandeur, broad flaring hips, and a Michelangelo sculptured rear-end, would go wild.
Prior to her match, Betty-Jo suddenly had a disconcerting urge to itch between her legs. By the time she reached the locker room door, she felt as if a colony of fire ants had taken up residence in her crotch. Damn, she thought! It's either ants in my pants or itching powder. She suspected the later, because Valerie Chezkovitch was staring at her—as she ran past her to the washroom—and the Russian looked pleased with herself. Actually, itching powder is a rather cute trick, she thought. I might as well face it; not everyone on tour is going to love me.
Betty-Jo easily defeated unranked Israeli national, Jordana Wiseman, six two, six three. But it was not a victory she enjoyed. Throughout the match, all she wanted to do was stop and itch. She had been unable to get all of the ants out of her pants, and the remaining ants were agonizing. The arm of her chair provided some relief on the changeovers, but she was aware that the cameras were on her.
If I'm not circumspect about how I scratch, the whole world will think I'm some kind of pervert.
A few members of the press, enamored by her blatant sexuality, were predicting a U.S. Open championship for Betty-Jo. But in the round of sixteen, she would be up against sixth seated Anna Maria, a classy and seasoned player, who like herself, was regarded as easy viewing by the male contingent. The twenty thousand seat Stadium Court had quickly sold out, and scalpers were receiving five hundred dollars for seventy-dollar tickets. Tennis enthusiasts had never seen anything like it, and neither had the American President. An overnight tennis enthusiast, he invited all round of sixteen women to dinner at the White House.
Betty-Jo was thrilled to receive an invitation to dine with the President, until Brad reminded her that he'd told her a presidential invitation might be forthcoming.
The American Princess - Best Love Story Ever Page 29