“Hello?” he prodded.
“I told you to hold on.”
“Yeah, but you’re still there. I can hear you breathing. Or maybe you’re panting. I knew you were hot for me.”
“I’m not panting and I’m certainly not hot for you. That’s my dog. She’s hot for a treat. I’m merely doing something and I can’t talk.”
“Don’t tell me you’re eating another cookie?”
She glanced around. “How do you know I ate cookies?” “I drove you home. You had a little too much to drink at the wedding and your sister was busy dancing, so I offered to give you a ride. After watching you swipe another piece of cake from the celibate ladies, I didn’t think you could put away any more sweets. But I swear you ate half the bag before I left you at your apartment.”
“You were here? In my apartment?”
“I suppose I could have just driven by and shoved you out the door. I was tempted after you started spilling crumbs all over my Hummer. But I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
“Cocky and arrogant and stuck on yourself?” “Confident and self-assured and comfortable in my skin.”
“Same thing.”
“Despite the lack of sexual skills, I’m known as a ladies’ man. A charmer. A roaming cowboy who stops off for a good time then rides off into the sunset. Dumping women on their front porch doesn’t exactly fit with the image. Maybe if I dumped them after sex, but we haven’t had sex yet so it just doesn’t seem right.”
She didn’t miss the humor in his voice and she knew he was teasing her.
Charming her, and living up to that irresistible bad-boy image.
She thought back to last night, to the craving in the pit of her stomach and the way he’d looked the first moment she’d spotted him—so dark and handsome and hungry as he’d stared back at her. As if he’d really wanted to take a bite out of her.
Not a possibility. Clint MacAllister, for all his good looks, didn’t have bite potential. Not as the biter or the bitee. He and his marriage-minded ideas put him at the top of her hands-off list.
“So you brought me all the way home?”
“All the way.”
“Up the elevator and into my apartment?”
“And straight into your bedroom.”
“You put me to bed?” She wiggled, feeling for her undies. There. Present and intact. Relief swamped her. He hadn’t been completely teasing when he’d said they hadn’t had sex. They really hadn’t.
Yet.
The word rooted in her head as his voice slid into her ear. “Actually, I poured you into bed and left the rest of your cookies and your picture on the nightstand.”
“Picture?” She eyed the black-and-white photo sitting next to the empty bag. Clint stood in his racing uniform, his helmet in his hand. “I told you I didn’t really follow racing.”
“Once I accepted your proposal, you told me how great I was and begged me for a picture.”
She searched for the memory and came up with a very fuzzy version. “I did not beg.”
“It sounded like begging to me.”
She could practically hear his smile over the phone. No doubt the same cocky expression he wore in the picture.
Her heart did a double thump. She shifted her gaze to the scribbled CM in the lower right-hand corner. Her thumb brushed over the ink, which wasn’t ink at all but part of the actual picture. “A pre-printed autograph?”
“It saves time. So when do you teach me how to go at it?”
She set the picture aside and plopped her Diet Coke can on top. “I’m not going to teach you how to go at it. I’m going to teach you how to pleasure a woman. There’s a big difference.”
“Sure. So which position do we start with?”
“Girl Talk is an information source, not a call-girl service. You’ll receive an in-depth education on everything from the female anatomy to what to do to with said anatomy. We do have some hands-on exercises, but those are with educational tools. It’s up to you to take the knowledge you acquire and apply it in practice.” What was she saying? She wasn’t really going to do this. No way was she going to coach Clint MacAllister on how to pleasure a woman.
And why not?
He was a guy, for heaven’s sake, and her clientele were all women. She educated women, not men.
And why not?
Because her entire career had been geared toward providing women with information to make them sexually independent. To put them in charge of their own bodies and their own orgasms and their own pleasure. She couldn’t sell herself out and change her entire mission statement just so she could learn firsthand how a man crushed a beer can against his forehead and avoided a concussion.
She had ethics. She had principles. She had . . . a huge bedroom all to herself.
Her gaze swept the room, from the sheer white curtains embossed with pink roses, to the white vanity table overflowing with makeup and perfume and flavored body gel courtesy of Xandra and her company, to the king-sized four-poster canopy bed where she half-sat, half-sprawled amid a pile of cookie crumbs and a Shih Tzu.
And you were saying?
Okay, so she had a frilly room that made men uncomfortable. That was still no reason to take on Cowboy Clint MacAllister as a client.
He was too exasperating with his slow, lazy smiles. Too infuriating with his twinkling, strip-you-bare blue eyes. Too intimidating with his in-your-face attitude.
Too much her type.
Which was the entire point. Who better to help her get the inside scoop on an alpha male than the poster boy himself?
At least that had been her thinking last night. But today, in the bright light of day with her answering machine blinking with a dozen messages, a few of which were sure to belong to her mother, it seemed so... traitorous.
She could practically hear her mother now.
“No daughter of mine would sacrifice her time studying a bunch of typically male-oriented subjects just to find a man. Why, it’s the man who should be learning your interests. Think, Skye. No daughter of mine would change for a man. The man should be changing for you.”
But she hadn’t planned on actually changing who she was. She just wanted to expand her interests, broaden her horizons, add a few more layers to her personality.
“So when do we get started? I really need to have this stuff down in the next three weeks, in time for the Pepsi 400. The race is at Daytona Speedway where Darla works as a PR rep. It’ll be the perfect opportunity to get together with her and prove her wrong about the sex. I’ll show off my newfound skills and she’ll reconsider my proposal.”
“You sound really sure of yourself.”
“She said it was the sex. I fix that and it’s all good. We’ve got two out of the Holy Three. Darla’s the perfect woman. She knows everything about racing and she loves the sport. She can name every team in the NFL. She loves fried chicken.”
“Your favorite food, I take it.”
“Actually, chicken fried steak is my favorite food. But the point is, it’s fried.”
“You can both grow old and clog your arteries together.”
“Exactly.” The Texas accent faded as his voice took on a more serious note.
Skye had a sudden thought that maybe Cowboy MacAllister wasn’t the one hundred percent good ole bad boy he pretended to be. He had a serious side.
The deep, self-assured ring to his voice sent an added thrill through her, even more than his charm-you-out-of-your-panties drawl.
“My schedule is hectic,” he went on. “As the owner, I’m still as responsible for the team and its success as if I were actually driving the car. This week I can do Monday—tomorrow—and Thursday. Next week my schedule is pretty much the same, but I’ll be home Wednesday night. We’ll get together then and—”
“I really need more notice than this. I already have several private bookings both this week and next.” She crawled out of bed and tried to ignore the sensation in her chest. He had such a deep voice and with every word, sh
e felt a flutter. The reaction made her forget about adding layers to her personality and, instead, made her think about peeling a few layers off her person and getting completely naked with the handsome race-car driver on the other end of the phone line.
You’re crazy. You can’t do this. You don’t have to do this. A man will come along who shares your interests. He’ll be handsome and caring and macho enough to ride a mechanical bull. All you have to do is be patient and proud. You’re a vibrant, mature woman.
“Cancel something,” Clint said.
“I can’t cancel.” You’re a woman who knows who she is and where she’s going.
“So work me in.”
“Easier said than done. I need time to get a decent lesson plan ready.” A woman who doesn’t have to sacrifice her sense of self just to find a man.
“You probably know this stuff by heart. Just wing it.” “I don’t wing it.”
“Why not?”
“Because... because I don’t. Sure, I know a lot about sex, but I still have to stay up on all the new studies. Speaking of which, I’ve got a seminar at the University of Dallas on Saturday that I’m still preparing for. I’ll be busy every day this week.” A woman who doesn’t need a man to validate her self-worth.
“We’ll get together in the evening.”
“I’ve scheduled late afternoon sales meetings with the people who supply my educational materials.” A woman who makes and plays by her own rules.
“We’ll get together at night.”
“I’m a contributing writer for the local paper and I’ve got a column due next Monday. I do a question-and-answer thing on women and sex and relationships. Not that I’m currently in a relationship.” A pathetic, desperate woman who makes and plays by her own rules all by her lonesome.
“The week after the weekend after next? I suppose we can do it if we cram—”
“Tomorrow,” she blurted. “We’ll get together first thing tomorrow.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Xandra said around a mouthful of Tic Tacs. She leaned back in a beige chair situated in the middle of Crosby’s, one of the biggest and most elite shoe boutiques in Dallas, and popped another mint into her mouth. “I don’t know why you didn’t think of it before.”
Skye eyed the mountains of boxes that surrounded her own chair before reaching for one. “Because I’ve never been a tipsy, nauseous maid of honor before.” She pulled a pair of black satin, three-inch heeled sandals from a box and slid one on her right foot. “Oh, and did I mention lonely and desperate and depraved?” She shoved her left foot into the second and stood. “No wonder Mom’s anti-wedding.” She took a few steps, came back, and, ignoring a twinge of longing, reached for a pair of red slingback pumps. “Weddings can definitely be hazardous to mental health. They give people unrealistic expectations about marriage. When real life doesn’t measure up to the ideal, couples call a lawyer. No marriage, no lawyer, no expensive divorce. Non-marriage keeps things simple and sane.”
“So sayeth the good, obedient eldest daughter. You’ve been watching way too much Get Sexed Up.”
“The marriage spiel isn’t from one of her shows, it’s from Mom’s second book.”
“Oh.” Xandra shrugged. “Okay, so I don’t watch or read her, but at least I talk to her.” She sucked a few seconds on her Tic Tacs—her new quitting smoking strategy—then pinned Skye with a stare. “You can talk to her now, you know. The wedding is over.”
“But her oldest daughter doing something she would totally disapprove of is not. Mom would freak if she thought for an inkling of a second that one of her daughters was taking macho lessons in order to find a long-term relationship.”
“I see your point. But I’m sick of being the only one she can actually get a hold of. That gets me all of her attention and her advice. If I hear one more time about how she gave Dad flowers for their non-anniversary rather than the other way around and how I should be the aggressor with Mark and just come out and tell him I want his sperm, I’m going to explode.”
“You want Mark’s sperm? As in, Mark’s baby?”
“Not Mark’s necessarily. Just a baby. I went to seven baby showers last month alone and in a weak moment I mentioned to Mom that I might actually like to have one of my own someday.”
“I wouldn’t mind a baby of my own, either” Skye said, eyeing a nearby pair of yellow pumps with small square heels. “Someday. Maybe.”
“I never would have figured you for the maternal type.”
“Why not? I’m an older sister. I’ve changed plenty of diapers in my day, including yours. Not that I really enjoyed it, but I know how to do it. And someday, I wouldn’t mind doing it for a child or two. Maybe even three.”
“Three.” Xandra let loose a low whistle. “That would be a big responsibility.”
“Responsibility’s my middle name. Unlike some people.” She pinned Xandra with a stare. “Couldn’t you have given up a few dances to see your oldest sister safely home?”
“And deprive said oldest sister—single, lonely oldest sister—of the company of a really hot stud? The man is hot, and you propositioning him was a stroke of genius.”
“I hope so.” Skye reached for another box with a pair of tan slide-on mules with turquoise beading sewn onto the soft leather. “Wow. Look at these. Too high, huh?”
“Way too high, and do I detect a second thought?” “No. Yes.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She paused. “I am doing this, because it is the right thing to do. I’m just not so sure I can do it.”
“Nonsense. You’ve taught sex to a zillion people.” “Women. I’ve taught sex to women. Clint hardly falls into that category.”
Xandra seemed to think. “I see your point.”
“I’m afraid I might feel uncomfortable.”
“Maybe you should try that technique where you picture someone in their underwear. It makes them less threatening.”
“I doubt that will work in this case.”
“So picture him in ballet shoes and a tutu, and get on with it.” Skye smiled and Xandra added, “And make sure you take lots of notes and pass them on to me.”
Skye grabbed another box and unearthed a pair of high pink platform shoes. “Look at these.”
“Barbie shoes if I’ve ever seen them,” Xandra said. Skye’s passion for all things Barbie, particularly her shoes, stemmed from their childhood when Barbie had been a forbidden item in the Farrel household. Skye could still remember going to the local toy store and walking down the Barbie aisle coveting the different versions of the doll and all the accessories. Furniture. Clothes. Shoes.
Just as she was coveting Clint MacAllister now.
The intense physical attraction she felt for him and the lusty craving threatened her sanity, but made him all the more perfect. If she wanted to find and keep a man as macho as Clint MacAllister, a man who could scatter her thoughts and leave her speechless with just a glance and a smile, then she had to learn as much as possible about the activities he enjoyed.
Of course, in return, she had to teach him about females and their pleasure. That would be the easy part. She was a female, after all, and she knew what made for great pleasure.
Even more, she was a professional on the subject, and the next two weeks would be purely business.
She gave the pink platforms a last, long look before shoving them back into the box and reaching for the first box, which contained a pair of chunky, low-heeled black pumps that were on sale. Pumps that were practical and professional and comfortable and well within her budget.
“I’ll just take these,” she said, handing them to the salesperson.
Chapter Six
“I think Tucker’s nervous,” Jeep McGraw said as Clint took the phone from Lindy on Sunday afternoon. Since it was Sunday and a typical work day for him, Clint sat behind his desk going over the contracts Lindy had previewed for his approval. She stood a few feet away in front of a wall of file cabinets, a stack of paperwork in her hands.
; “Forget think,” Jeep went on. “I know he’s nervous.” Jeep was the car chief responsible for the now infamous #62 red, white and Texas blue Chevrolet sponsored by Big Tex Motor Oil. Winning car of the past seven Winston Cup series championships, and a current contender for number eight if Tuck kept up his current winning streak.
“Naturally, he won’t admit it,” Jeep went on. “He’s got that it’s-all-good grin on his face like always. But he’s pacing up a firestorm from one end of the garage to the next, and he never paces.”
“He’s nervous, all right.” And with good reason. Tuck was one of the youngest drivers to ever hit the
Winston Cup Series, and one of the best. Clint had spotted him the previous year in his first Busch Series, where he’d won a few races and shown a great deal of raw talent. But he hadn’t been much of a contender for the championship thanks to a reckless streak and a rebellious attitude that had overshadowed his remarkable driving skills. After the Busch team fired him, Clint found him racing the short, local tracks in Texas and offered him the chance of a lifetime.
The chance to drive a winning car in the most prestigious NASCAR cup series, and the most lucrative.
“He’s never raced Pocono before—only in test laps and that isn’t even close to the real thing. You and I both know that it’s one of the most difficult and frustrating tracks in NASCAR.”
“I don’t think that’s it, boss. When he found out that you weren’t flying in for the race, he had this strange look on his face. Like he was pissed off and hurt at the same time. Now he’s acting like he couldn’t care less. He didn’t even give us any feedback to make final changes after yesterday’s qualifier. Said the car was perfect right off the truck and he’s good to go.”
“Maybe he is.”
“Maybe, and maybe he’s going back to his old ways where he didn’t give a shit. You know what they say, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”
“He’s probably just wired because it’s a difficult track,” Clint replied as he punched the remote control and the big-screen TV that took up half his trophy wall flickered to life.
Kiss Me Once, Kiss Me Twice Page 6