A Few Good Fantasies

by Michele Bardsley

  A Few Good Fantasies

  By Michele Bardsley

  Published by Michele Bardsley

  www.MicheleBardsley.com

  Copyright © Michele R. Freeman 2013

  A Few Good Fantasies is a Freeman Publication.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the copyright holder.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement from the author of this work.

  The three stories in A Few Good Fantasies are re-titled, revised, and updated erotic romances previously published in a print anthology titled Fantasyland.

  Cover Art by Renée George

  http://romance-the-night.com/Renee_George/

  Fantasy Date

  Chapter 1

  GLENNA ROSEMONT ACCEPTED the glass of champagne. Nerves tightened her belly and made her palms sweat. This is stupid. This is so utterly stupid.

  Standing in a lushly decorated room crowded with women and men who all wanted a Fantasy Date did not make her feel better. Why should verification that the world was a lonely place give her the warm fuzzies?

  She sipped the champagne and pretended to look at the paintings—all Impressionists, yuck—so that she wouldn’t have to make eye contact with anyone else.

  This little trip to the Isle of Romance in general and Fantasy Date in particular was courtesy of her mother. Lenora Rosemont was nothing if not persistent in the pursuit of finding the right man for her only daughter.

  “How does shipping me off to enjoy a pseudo-relationship help with my love life?” she’d asked her mother in a last-ditch effort to avoid this trip.

  “The only horse you’ve ever ridden threw you and stomped you flat.” Mother handed her the brochure. “It’s time to go riding again, darling.”

  The “horse” Mother referred to was Dr. Charles Moore. Nearly a year ago, he had ended their engagement mere weeks before their wedding.

  Why? Because he married a stripper named Crystal in Las Vegas.

  It was a blow to her heart and to her ego.

  Charles had been the first man who’d ever looked at her as a person instead of a china doll. He had intelligence, warmth, and kindness. He had his own money, so he didn’t need hers.

  He’d been her first and only lover. He was gentle and sweet. Though she spent a great deal of time imagining their lives together, planning the wedding was left to her mother and the professionals. Glenna hadn’t cared about the details surrounding the Big Day. She just wanted to be Mrs. Charles Moore.

  Her family was not demonstrative. Expressing opinions on relevant topics was expected; showing emotion was not. The only place Charles ever showed affection was in their bedroom. Glenna swallowed the knot in her throat. She and Charles and been compatible. But they had not been in love.

  It had been a bitter pill to swallow.

  Who needs a man? I have books! She supposed she had Charles to thank for Between the Pages. If he had not abandoned her, she wouldn’t have spent all the time, energy, and money creating the cozy independent bookstore.

  Glenna loved the little store with its first editions and rare finds. Oh, she sold bestsellers, too, but she had no interest in the fluff written these days. Give her Charlotte Bronte or Shakespeare or Voltaire.

  “Ms. Rosemont.” The blonde hostess—Tiffany or Bethany or some name ending with –any—appeared next to her. “Would you come this way, please?”

  She followed the woman through a door, down a hallway, and into another room. On one side was a floor-to-ceiling mirror—the biggest she’d ever seen. And she lived in a mansion with her mother, who obsessed about every line, every wrinkle and thus, had mirrors everywhere to indulge her beauty worries.

  A white leather couch was placed in front of the mirror. The glass coffee table held a single, thick binder. At the far end was a typical office: desk, chair, file cabinets.

  “Your consultant is Joanne. She’ll be with you in a moment. May I get you anything else, Ms. Rosemont?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The blonde smiled and left, shutting the door behind her. Glenna stared at her reflection in the outrageously large mirror. Then she looked down at the binder.

  She sucked down the champagne in one swig and wished like hell she’d asked the hostess for another glass or two. Why had she caved into Mother’s demands?

  Glenna had allowed herself to be poked and prodded into this trip because she was lonely. She wanted a relationship. She wanted marriage and children. However, in order to find a man worth loving, she had to … to … date. And she would rather burn all her first editions than suffer through the archaic and confusing rituals involved with dating.

  The door opened. A short brunette dressed in a black pant suit and sensible black heels strode to the couch and sat next to Glenna. She offered a hand and said, “Hello. I’m Joanne.”

  “Glenna.”

  They shook hands. Joanne’s gaze was frank. She wore little make-up and her hair was cut in a pageboy style. She looked no-nonsense professional and for some odd reason, this made Glenna feel better.

  “We have all your paperwork, Glenna. We’ve made several choices based on the answers to your questionnaires. Would you like to see your potential companions?”

  “You might as well show me what Mother picked out.” Glenna glanced at the binder.

  “Ah. While your mother did request the opportunity to review your choices, only our clients are allowed to look at and pick from our companion roster.”

  Glenna smiled. “You told her no? I’m sure that went over well.”

  Amusement flashed in Joanne’s brown eyes. “I assure you, Glenna, that your Fantasy Date will be all that you desire. Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” No. Hell, no. Get me out of here, please.

  Joanne opened the binder and from the side pocket, she took out a credit-card thin remote control. She pointed it at the mirror, which turned gray then clear.

  “Go on,” said Joanne. “Have a look.”

  Her heart pounding, Glenna stood up and walked to the glass. “Can they see me?”

  “No. Give me your top three choices. Then we’ll look at their profiles and you can pick the best one.”

  Glenna felt like a kid with her nose pressed against the candy store window. At least a dozen men lounged around a large room. Most were shirtless. Some wore jeans and others shorts and still others boxers. A large-screen television blared CNN. Some sprawled on a couch and watched it. Two men were working out: one ran on a treadmill and the other lifted weights.

  They were all hot. GQ models trapped behind glass. Muscled chests, chiseled profiles, narrow hips, long legs … dear God, a smorgasbord of maleness that overwhelmed and titillated her.

  Joanne had not gotten up. The consultant sat on the couch and waited patiently for her to make a decision. Three decisions.

  Glenna walked from one end of the mirror to the other. She paused, turning to look over her shoulder. “They all match my … uh, expectations?”

  Joanne nodded. “Not everyone is a perfect fit, but the ones you’re looking at now are the closest to your requirements.”

  Glenna returned to the mirror. She felt guilty, like Arthur Dent in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe when the cow came out and asked him to choose his steak. Here she was viewing specimens and being asked to choose her steaks.

  Well, here goes.

  “The guy on the treadmill.” She looked over the four men lounging on the furniture in front of the television. She rarely watche
d TV, preferring books over mindless distractions. She wanted someone with an attention span, so she skipped over those watching the big screen.

  The guy lifting weights was too bulky. He reminded her of the Hulk. She spied one man leaning against the wall looking at a magazine. Hmm. Well, he was the only one reading anything, so he won a spot by default. She pointed at him and said, “The blonde in the faded jeans reading People.”

  “Pick out one more,” said Joanne.

  Glenna looked over the men one more time. She spotted a redhead standing near the closed door. His spiked hair was wet and he wore only a towel around his waist. He leaned next to the doorjamb with his arms crossed, looking really pissed off.

  She watched him, curious. He didn’t appear to fit in with the rest of the men. Not that she could tell much about any of them through three inches of glass. Then he looked up, seemingly straight at her. He had eyes as green as pond moss. Her heart skipped a beat then restarted at a wild pace.

  “Him,” she said, her voice cracking. She cleared her throat. “I want the redhead in the towel.”

  “Who?” Joanne rose from the couch and joined Glenna at the window. She brought the binder with her and thumbed through it. “I don’t have his picture or profile. He may not be available.”

  “I hope he is. Never mind about the other two,” said Glenna. “He’s the one I want.”

  Joanne smiled. “Let me track down his information and then we’ll discuss your package options.”

  Glenna nodded. Joanna went to the office area and picked up the phone. While her consultant made inquiries about the mystery man, Glenna took the opportunity to study the redhead. He was more than six feet tall and well-muscled. His chest had light dusting of red curls. His nose had an endearing crook in the middle and there was an intriguing scar that ran along his left cheekbone.

  He was the imperfect one among the perfect. And she wanted him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to consider other companions?” asked Joanne as she crossed the room.

  “No,” said Glenna. “He’s the one.”

  “Okay.” Joanne glanced at the window then at Glenna. Her smile was a little too fixed to be real. “Have a seat. I’ll return in a few moments.”

  She retrieved the remote and pointed it at the glass, which turned into a mirror again.

  After Joanne left, Glenna stared at her own reflection again. She’d inherited her looks from a family with good genes—just like she’d inherited her money from a family whose wealth was generational. She was careless about the beauty, much to her mother’s distress, and grateful for the money, which allowed her to indulge in her true love: book collecting.

  She looked herself over. She wore her blonde hair long and straight with bangs. Her eyes were light blue, often compared to a glacier. Then again, so was her attitude. She had Lenora’s heart-shaped face, but not her Botoxed plump lips. Because she refused beauty treatments and plastic surgery, her lips were on the thin side. But she had great cheekbones and skin as pale as moonlight.

  Because of her looks and her money, she had been wooed numerous times by men in her social circles. If even one man had courted her she was interesting or sexy or funny, she might’ve attempted dating. However, the motive had always been the same: She was a good match. She was, in their eyes, the perfect accessory for a busy man collecting all the things needed for success. She was merely something to be checked off a list.

  So, she had refused to go to another party, dinner, or soiree. She’d boycotted dating, too. Then she’d taken a large chunk of her money and opened Between the Pages. She hired a full time book restorer, a full-time employee, and a part-time shop assistant. She often went on trips looking for antiquarian tomes.

  Her life, once she’d taken control, was wonderful. Except that she was lonely. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to be … wanted.

  Sighing, she glanced at the mirror. Was she really hoping that Mystery Man could show her the way to her own heart? Would his ability to woo her for a day or two crack open her icy exterior?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Chapter 2

  “NO.” SEAN O’MALLEY strode past Joanne and went into the locker room. Joanna followed him. “My asshole friends locked me in that bloody room with those pretty boys. I’m not for sale.”

  “Neither are they,” said Joanne in a patient voice. “They offer companionship to women who need a little romance in their lives.”

  “And they get paid for it.” Sean grimaced. “What do you call someone who gets paid to have sex?”

  “Lucky.”

  Sean snorted.

  “Oh, come on! They draw a salary same as you,” said Joanne. “Only you get boss people around and threaten them with violence.”

  “I’m a Safety Agent.” He grabbed the edge of his towel and looked at Joanne with brows raised. “You really want to see the show, love?”

  “If I didn’t know what an ass you are, that Irish accent would melt me into a puddle of goo.” Joanne sighed. “Out of all those prime specimens, she picked you. You’ve substituted for me before.”

  “Once. And you’ll remember I said never again.”

  Joanne threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell the client you’re unavailable and she’ll have to settle for someone else.”

  Sean hesitated, simply because Joanna knew full well how he felt about the Fantasy Date business and still had the balls to ask him. He couldn’t help being a little intrigued. “You puttin’ me on, Joanna?”

  “No. She doesn’t want three dates. She just wants you.” Joanne looked him over and then she shook her head. “I shouldn’t tell you this because God knows your ego is big enough. She took longer than most of my clients to look over her choices. And she didn’t have a visceral reaction to anyone—except you.”

  The last time Sean had substituted as a companion, the whole experience had been miserable. It wasn’t that the woman wasn’t beautiful or charming. Hell, she made it damned clear she’d go to bed with him. No, he hadn’t liked the feel of being someone’s arm candy. She’d paraded him around like a damned trained monkey. He put up with rude pats on his ass and smarmy comments. And at the end of the evening, when she grabbed his crotch and told him it was time to play cowboy, he’d told her no.

  He didn’t know how the other men put up with that kind of crap.

  “Fine,” said Sean, knowing he was going to regret agreeing to this nonsense. “But if we don’t hit off, I walk.”

  “Deal.”

  FOR YOUR FIRST meeting with your Fantasy Date, what would you enjoy most:

  A. Walk on the beach.

  B. Intimate dinner for two.

  C. Dance at a night club.

  D. Other

  Glenna had chosen D and then had written: Meet for tea and scones at a bookstore cafe.

  Now, she sat at tiny table in the café portion of a bookstore called Romancin’ the Book. It was within walking distance of her hotel, tucked in-between a store that sold bathing suits and beach accessories and a gourmet gifts shop.

  She sipped her green tea sweetened with honey and waited for the luscious Sean O’Malley.

  She tried to dress casual, which for her meant white Chinos, a pink-striped top, and diamond stud earrings. To show off her pedicure, she’d chosen her jeweled T-strap Manolo Blahnick high heels. She’d pulled her hair into a ponytail and fluffed her bangs.

  Nervously, she sipped her green tea. What if he didn’t show? What if he didn’t want her? What if he—oh, shit. There he was. Walking toward her. He was dressed in black, pleated pants and a green dress shirt. The shirt complemented his fabulous eyes.

  She tried not to drool.

  Thank goodness social graces were second nature. She rose, smiled brightly, and extended her hand. “Hello. I’m Glenna.”

  He took her hand and shook it heartily. “Sean.”

  Wow. He had quite the grip. She half-expected him to press his lips against her knuckles and say somethin
g romantic.

  Instead, he plopped into the chair across from hers and looked her over. “You’re pretty.”

  This announcement was made grudgingly.

  “Thank you.” She resumed her seat, at a loss. She pushed the plate of scones toward him. “Would you like to try one?”

  “Not particularly.” He looked around the bookstore and grimaced. “You like books, I guess.”

  “Yes.”

  Their first meeting was not turning out well at all. He was so handsome—the kind of handsome she wanted to nibble and lick. And that sexy lilt to his words … yummy. If only she could give in to the lust. Say something outrageous like, “Take me into the alley and fuck me.”

  Her cheeks heated and she looked at the cardboard cup that held her cooling tea. She could never make that sort of demand. Never say—much less do—something that naughty.

  “What do you do, Sean?” She smiled. “When you’re not a Fantasy Date, I mean.”

  “This and that.” His gaze landed on her, dipped to her mouth, and then bounced away. “What do you do?”

  I’m a matador. I’m a deep sea diver. I’m a stripper. She sighed. “I own a bookstore.”

  “If you dislike it so much, why don’t you sell it?”

  Glenna looked at him, surprised. He had misinterpreted her reaction. So much for instant kinship. “I love my shop. Books are my passion.”

  “Oh.” His gaze skimmed her mouth again. Her heart stuttered. Did he want her? But no, his eyes conveyed intense boredom. His arms were crossed, a clear sign of close-mindedness. Obviously, he didn’t want to be here.

  “What are you other passions?” he asked.

  Like you care. “I have none.” She stood up, suddenly furious with him, with herself, with the whole situation. “I’m sorry I wasted your time. Good evening, Sean.”

  She hitched her purse over her shoulder and strode away.

  SEAN WATCHED GLENNA hurry through the cooking section and bolt out the door. Great job, Sean. He sighed and considered the woman he’d just pissed off.