by Miranda Lee
‘Thrilled to pieces.’
Lucille wished she could say the same, but she wasn’t. Divorce was bad enough when there weren’t any children involved. She’d give Michele and Tyler a few years at best. And now there was a baby coming. An innocent little baby…
‘I had no idea you both wanted a baby so soon,’ she commented as casually as she could. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘No, not at all. Tyler told me on our wedding night that he didn’t want to wait. From my dates, I must have fallen pregnant on my honeymoon.’
‘How romantic,’ Lucille murmured, not too drily. So it had all been Tyler’s idea! She might have guessed.
Michele sighed dreamily. ‘I think so, too. I’m so happy, Lucille, that I sometimes think it can’t possibly last.’
Exactly what Lucille was thinking.
The waitress came over and they ordered their usual: ham and salad sandwiches—no onions—two cappuccinos, a low-fat blueberry muffin for Michele and a doughnut for Lucille. Custard and cream this time.
‘I have some other news for you, too,’ Michele went on as soon as the girl departed.
‘You can’t possibly know the sex of the baby yet,’ Lucille protested. ‘It’s way too soon.’
‘No, nothing to do with the baby. Harry and his heiress are getting married. What have you got to say to that?’
‘I’d say that heiress is the optimum word in that little proposal.’
Michele shook her head. ‘There you go again, being super-cynical. Just as well I wasn’t a rich bitch or you’d be thinking all Tyler wanted from me was a financial merger. But no more talk about me. I want to talk about you.’
‘Me? What about me?’
‘Met any Latin lover types lately?’
‘Afraid not.’ Lucille hated lying, but three weeks ago didn’t classify as ‘lately’, surely.
‘Any decent-looking guy at all ask you out this last week?’ Michele asked exasperatedly.
‘No. Not a one.’ Val didn’t bother any more. He knew what her answer would be.
‘I can’t understand it. You must freeze them off with that attitude of yours.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Have you worn that red dress yet?’
‘Haven’t had much opportunity,’ Lucille replied. ‘Christmas parties don’t start till December,’ she added. ‘And that’s still two weeks off.’
Not that she intended going to any parties this year. She had better things to do than stand around all night, drinking cheap sparkling wine, eating lukewarm finger-food and trying to fend off drunken yobbos. Erica’s Christmas party wouldn’t be much better. The food might be hotter, the wine more expensive and the yobbos richer, but basically it would be just the same.
‘Then I’ll have to make an opportunity,’ Michele insisted. ‘I’ll get Tyler onto finding some tickets to something you have to dress up for. Maybe something at the Opera House. An opera, or the ballet. We’ll go to supper afterwards. Somewhere swanky where eligible rich men-about-town gather. And I don’t want you finding some pathetic excuse not to come along. I didn’t buy you that dress for it to sit in your wardrobe.’
‘I will wear it. I promise.’
‘You certainly will, because I’ll be there to see it on you.’
‘Okay, but no surprise partner for me, please.’
‘I wouldn’t do that to you.’
‘Yes, you would.’
‘Never. Blind dates are the pits, in my opinion. I’ll give you a call once I know when and where, but keep this Friday night free.’
Lucille was about to make some excuse for this Friday when she remembered it was the opening night of Takes Two to Tango. When Val had mentioned the première a week ago, her look had warned him not to ask her to go with him.
She could just imagine it! All the press would be there, snapping photos of them together and printing them in the weekend papers along with suitably salacious captions, after which everyone would know what had been going on. Michele. Erica. All the women at work. Possibly her own mother.
Marion Jordan wasn’t an aficionado of gossip columns, but there was always some busybody neighbour who saw such interesting items and couldn’t wait to relay the good news. Her mother was the kind of woman who believed ‘nice girls’ didn’t kiss a boy on the first date, so seeing her divorced daughter linked with a man of Val’s reputation would probably make her reach for the smelling salts.
Mrs Jordan had been forty-five when Lucille was born, so there was more than the usual generation gap between her and her youngest child. Lucille’s two older sisters had been twenty and twenty-two at the time, so they’d been like aunts, rather than sisters. Disapproving aunts, to boot. As she’d grown up, Lucille had never been able to do a thing right in their eyes. They’d called her ‘fast’, which was an old-fashioned euphemism for slut.
Her mother had been more than relieved when she’d married at the relatively young age of twenty-two.
‘Dear Roger’ had been Lucille’s saviour, in her mother’s eyes. A handsomely macho man. A good provider. A potentially perfect husband and father.
Her mother had thought Lucille crazy for leaving him. And nothing Lucille had ever said had changed her mother’s mind. No doubt she also thought her disgusting daughter was now out there sleeping around indiscriminately. Her sisters certainly thought so, always making snide remarks about her morals whenever Lucille was stupid enough to attend a family function.
Lucille wondered why she was trying to protect her own reputation—plus her family’s feelings—when she’d already been labelled a tramp and a fool. What difference would it really make if everyone knew about her affair with Val? Her boss certainly wouldn’t hold it against her.
She supposed the bottom line was pride. Pride and her own personal survival. She had to live with herself, when all was said and done.
Lucille jumped in her chair when her mobile rang.
Her heart fluttered as she reached down into her carry-all and brought it up to her ear. It could be the office, or a client. But she knew it wasn’t. That strangely telepathic sense she was developing where Val was concerned was working overtime.
‘Lucille Jordan,’ she answered in her best working voice.
‘I simply had to talk to you,’ Val pronounced frustratedly. ‘I’m about to strangle everyone here. Angela is acting like some bloody prima donna. Raoul is dancing like a second-rater. The rest of the cast members aren’t looking too happy, either. My director’s just flounced out of here in a huff and we’re only five days from opening. Talk to me, Lucille. Calm me down. You’re the only one who can do that lately. I’m about to burst a boiler.’
Lucille’s eyes darted to Michele, who was thankfully distracted by the waitress arriving with their food on a tray. ‘I’m having lunch with someone at the moment, Val,’ she whispered. ‘I can’t talk.’
‘Damn and blast.’
‘Look, give me half an hour and I’ll ring you back.’
‘I might be dead by then,’ he growled.
‘You’ll survive,’ she murmured, her eyes still on Michele, who was now busy chatting with the waitress about the lovely summery weather.
‘I suppose you’re having lunch with that friend of yours,’ he grumped, clearly not wanting to get off the line. ‘Michele. You told me you did that every Monday.’
‘Did I?’
Lucille’s surprised retort sent Michele’s dark eyes snapping back over to her.
The waitress took the hint, and left.
‘Don’t you remember?’ Val purred, all temperament forgotten as his sexual predator personality took over.
‘No, I don’t.’ Lucille voice was cool. It had to be. Michele was looking straight at her.
‘You tell me all sorts of interesting little things when we’re in bed together. I know more about you than you realise.’
‘Such as?’ She was still sounding cool, even whilst she was heating up inside.
Michele’s interest finally fell to her fo
od.
‘I know you’re the youngest in your family by far. I know you’ve got two older sisters whom you don’t relate to any better than your elderly parents. I know you started work as a receptionist at a real estate agency straight out of school, then moved on to sales a few years ago by sheer accident when none of the sales staff turned up one weekend and you sold three houses. I know you hated school, liked boys from an early age, and were a bit of a rebel. I know you lost your virginity at sixteen in the back seat of a car and actually enjoyed the experience. I know you adore doughnuts. I know you read just about anything but prefer thrillers, both in books and movies. I know you’re mad about men with large…er…egos.’
She laughed. She couldn’t help it.
Michele raised her eyebrows at her over her coffee cup.
‘I really have to go, Jody,’ she said, and Val chuckled.
‘So I’m Jody now, am I? What happened to Mr Valentino?’
‘My coffee’s getting cold…’
‘Can’t say the same for myself, all of a sudden. Don’t worry about ringing me back again. I know you’re busy. You’ve done the trick, anyway. I’m considerably calmer. At least, my mind is. My body’s another matter. I’ll go back inside and read this lot the Riot Act. As for that pathetic director. He’s out. I’ll direct the damned show myself.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? Shouldn’t you just try to smooth his ruffled feathers?’
‘Yeah. You’re probably right. I’m far too hot-headed for my own good sometimes. It’s all that Latin blood in me. It never knows when to lie down and die.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she said drily.
‘Wicked girl. Just wait till you get here tonight. By then, I’m going to be desperate.’
She wanted to whisper How desperate? in a provocative fashion, but didn’t dare. Michele was listening to every word.
‘Must go,’ she said curtly. ‘See you later.’
‘Don’t you dare be late,’ he called out just before she clicked off.
She threw Michele an apologetic glance as she popped the phone away and picked up a packet of sugar for her coffee. ‘Sorry about that. A bit of an emergency at the office. Jody didn’t know what to do. A disgruntled client.’
‘Not Mr Valentino again!’
‘Afraid so. Some people,’ Lucille sighed with a brilliant poker face, ‘are just never satisfied, no matter how hard you try to please them.’
CHAPTER TEN
‘IT WAS right what I told Michele,’ Lucille said thickly when Val started running tantalising fingertips up and down her spine. ‘About some people never being satisfied.’
Val had just returned to where she was still lying face-down on the thick blue rug in front of the imitation marble fireplace. Her lovely new turquoise suit was somewhere between there and the front door. So were the Femme Fatale white satin thong and matching half-cup bra, which hadn’t rated a second glance, so intent had Val been on getting her naked.
When he’d said he’d be desperate by the time she arrived, he’d really meant desperate. He’d already been naked under his robe when he’d let her in, stripping her without preamble then sweeping her up into his arms. She’d thought he was going to carry her to his bed, but he hadn’t made it past the sofa facing the fireplace. He’d been so impassioned that they’d fallen off onto the rug.
Of all Val’s lovemaking, this had been his most urgent, his own climax stunning in its intensity. Yet here he was, less than a minute back from the bathroom, touching her again, wanting more.
And she…she was so hopeless at resisting him.
‘I just can’t seem to get enough of you,’ he murmured, his voice and fingertips incredibly soft and sensual. ‘Usually it works the other way around with me. The more sex I have, the less I want. But not with you, my darling. With you, the more I have, the more I want.’ His mouth replaced his fingertips, feathering kisses all the way down her spine. And further.
Lucille was glad her head was buried in the plush pile, her face flushing with the deliciously shameful intimacies his tongue was inflicting upon her. Her mind began squirming but her body exploded with pleasure. She even liked the feel of his stubbly chin rasping against the soft skin of her inner thighs. In the end, nothing he did to her felt wrong, or embarrassing. By the time he rolled her over and slipped a big sofa cushion under her head she would have done anything he asked. When he straddled her body and presented himself at her lips, she didn’t hesitate. She kissed the velvet tip, cupping him with her soft woman’s hands and drawing him deep into the warm, wet well of her mouth.
‘Oh, God, Lucille,’ he groaned, shuddering with pleasure. ‘Lucille…’
Her name echoed in the room as he rocked back and forth on his knees, his raw cries of rapture moving her in a way which should have been a warning. But Lucille was too carried away to appreciate the emotions gathering within her. Her own sexual excitement was still too intense, masking the depth of her feelings, giving her a deceptively cold-blooded excuse for doing what she was doing.
Lust. That was all this was. Lust.
She didn’t stop to think that lust was usually a selfish creature. Greedy and needy and utterly self-absorbed. It didn’t seek to give, rather than receive. It didn’t care for another’s pleasure, only its own.
Lucille’s hands were tellingly soft on his flesh, her mouth selfless and sweet. All she could think of was satisfying him. Pleasing him.
When Val groaned a warning groan and went to withdraw, as he’d always done before, she would have none of it, her hands keeping his straining flesh firmly captive whilst her eyes flashed fire up at him.
His face betrayed an agony of indecision. He wanted to. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his tensely held flesh. Lucille knew he wouldn’t need much persuading.
She began to move her hands, and her head.
The most glorious feeling ripped through her when she saw his eyes shut and heard his moan of sheer surrender. Was it elation she felt? Triumph? Power? What? What was this force which was compelling her to do what she’d never liked in the past? Why was she finding such pleasure in his pleasure? Why didn’t she care if she came or not?
This wasn’t what she’d wanted to be, she agonised for a split second. A woman who gave without receiving, a woman who let her body be used for another’s mindless satisfaction, a woman who didn’t demand the respect and consideration she rightfully deserved.
Yet, to be honest, this didn’t feel anything like that. She didn’t feel like some kind of victim, or slave. She felt wonderful. She felt incredible. She felt…good.
He shouted her name once more, then his head tipped back in ecstasy.
She was standing out on the balcony, leaning on the railing and watching the multicoloured lights of the Casino winking in the darkening waters below, when Val came out with two glasses of chilled Chablis. The sun hadn’t long set but already the night was upon them.
‘Thanks,’ she said absently as he handed her one, her mind elsewhere.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked softly.
She glanced over at him. He was wearing navy silk pyjama pants and nothing else. She’d dressed fully again, and quite quickly, saying that she couldn’t stay late again or she’d be useless at work in the morning.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ she lied.
‘Yes, there is,’ he insisted. ‘Tell me.’
Her mind raced to find something to tell him, anything but the truth—that she wasn’t sure she was as cut out for this…arrangement…as she’d thought she was, that she was afraid she was becoming emotionally involved with him. Or worse. After all she’d promised to herself, and all she’d claimed to everyone about playboys and what she thought of them. Especially Michele.
Michele! That was it! That was what she could tell Val. And it wasn’t a lie, either. She was worried about Michele.
‘If you really must know,’ Lucille said edgily, ‘I’m worried about Michele. She told me today that she’s pregnant.’
Val looked perplexed. ‘Why is that a worry? She’s married, isn’t she? To Tyler Garrison, the Rags to Riches publisher.’
‘And heir to the Garrison media fortune,’ Lucille added tartly, gulping down a massive mouthful of wine. ‘How long do you think that marriage will last?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said calmly. ‘I’m not a prophet.’
‘I’ll give it five years at best.’
‘I presume you think he doesn’t really love her?’
Lucille’s laugh carried true scorn. ‘Oh, come now, Val. Men like Tyler Garrison marry for lots of reasons, but rarely love.’
‘Is that so? What do they marry for, then? I’m curious to know what you think.’ He was watching her with annoyingly intense eyes, as if she was a specimen to be examined.
‘Ego, mostly. And sexual convenience. Money, sometimes, I’d imagine.’
‘Would you care to elaborate?’
‘They either marry rich bitches, to boost their financial reserves. Or supermodels, to boost their egos whilst bonking them silly.’
‘And which was your Michele? Rich bitch or supermodel?’
‘Neither. Which brings me to the only possible reason for Tyler marrying her. An heir.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course. An heir. Not a child, of course. Or a baby. An heir.’
‘You’re making fun of me.’
‘No, no, I don’t think anything you’ve just said is at all funny. I think it’s terribly sad.’
Her shoulders squared. ‘Life is sad, Val. And so are some marriages.’
‘I think yours must have been.’
‘I’m not talking about my marriage.’
‘Aren’t you? I think you are. I think everything you’ve just said has something to do with your marriage.’
‘Then you’re wrong. My marriage had nothing in common with Michele’s. I didn’t marry a rich man. I married a very ordinary man. A plumber, to be exact.’
‘His being a plumber has nothing to do with anything.’