Pleasure Seekers

by Rochelle Alers

  Girl, you’re going to get in over your head. Why, she mused, did Alana’s predictions always bring her back to reality?

  The doors opened at their floor and she exited the elevator. Within minutes of her inserting the key card in the slot, pushing open the door to their expansive suite and kicking off her shoes, she’d forgotten about Bartholomew Houghton and the very attractive woman clinging possessively to his arm.

  CHAPTER 37

  Bart withdrew from Felicia Mathis’s moist body; he sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, headed for the bathroom and closed the door. He slipped the condom off his flaccid penis, tied a knot in the latex sheath, placed it into a self-stick envelope on the vanity, then sealed it. It was a ritual he’d established the first time he’d ever paid a woman for sex. Call it paranoia but he didn’t want to leave behind any evidence of his sexual encounters.

  Sliding back a glass door, he stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water. He hadn’t begun to wash the smell of sex and Felicia’s perfume from his body when the door opened and she joined him.

  He grasped her upper arms. “What are you doing?”

  Tilting her head, she smiled up at him through her lashes. “What does it look like, darling? I’ve decided to share your shower.”

  Bart’s fingers tightened on her pale flesh. “No, Felicia.”

  “Don’t you want me to wash your back?” Her smoky voice had dropped an octave.

  “I want you to get out of the shower.” He gave her a lethal glare. “Now, Felicia.”

  They’d showered together in the past, but he didn’t want her tonight. He’d come to the hotel for one purpose: to slake his sexual frustrations. And if Felicia wanted more then she’d struck out, because seconds before ejaculating he realized he didn’t want the woman moaning and writhing beneath him to have alabaster skin, dark auburn hair or blue eyes but burnished-gold brown skin and eyes. For one brief moment he’d fantasized making love with Faye Ogden.

  Felicia left the shower stall, reaching for a terry-cloth robe from a stack on a low table. She was a call girl not a psychologist. Men paid her the big bucks to take care of their sexual needs, not to try and get inside their heads.

  This was a Bart Houghton she hadn’t seen before. They’d been sleeping together for years, and this was the first time she thought of him as a john. She’d lost count of the number of men she’d slept with for money; Bart was only one of the half-dozen wealthy men who paid her handsomely to give them sexual pleasure who didn’t make her feel as if she were performing a service.

  With Bart it was never slam bam, thank you, ma’am. There was always foreplay and after-play that temporarily held her demons at bay, demons that wouldn’t permit her to feel something other than loathing whenever she slept with a man.

  Felicia returned to the bedroom, lay across the bed and closed her eyes. Bart couldn’t exist in her world, nor would she ever become a part of his. The problem was, she liked Bartholomew Houghton—a lot. He was affectionate, generous, virile and, unlike many of her middle-aged and elderly clients, he didn’t need artificial gadgets to achieve an erection.

  She was still in the same position when Bart leaned down and kissed her forehead.

  “I’ll call you.”

  She opened her eyes and met his steady gaze. He’d showered and put on his clothes. “Okay.”

  It was their usual parting exchange. Felicia knew it would be a while before he contacted her again. There was a time in the past when they’d slept together several times a week, and occasions when they wouldn’t see each other for months. However, whenever he called she rearranged her schedule to accommodate him.

  And like every man who’d come into her life he was only good for one thing: money.

  CHAPTER 38

  Giuseppe held an umbrella over Faye as she handed him her single piece of luggage. He opened the rear door to the Maybach, waiting until she was seated before he closed it. He stored her bag in the trunk, came around the sedan and slipped behind the wheel; he closed the partition behind him before maneuvering away from the curb in one smooth motion.

  Faye settled herself onto the back seat of the car next to Bart. She was more than ready for sunshine, palm trees and the clear blue-green ocean because it’d been raining steadily for the past three days.

  Smiling, she met Bart’s gaze. Was there uncertainty in the gray eyes, or had she just imagined it? Was he uncomfortable because she’d seen him with another woman? A woman who could’ve been a friend, relative, or even a business client?

  He was dressed for traveling: jeans, running shoes and a pale blue Polo Tee. She’d chosen Seven jeans and her favorite Ralph Lauren navy blazer and a matching T-shirt. Leaning to her left, she kissed his cheek. He went completely still before relaxing. She knew she’d surprised him with the show of affection, but she’d made a promise to herself that she was going to enjoy her Cayman Islands weekend.

  “How are you, Bart?”

  His expression changed to one of faint amusement. “I’m better now that I’ve seen you.”

  He’d been bombarded with one crisis after another: a West Coast construction company was beset with union problems, a loans officer in his L.A.–based banking division had been arrested because of an altercation with the police at a DWI checkpoint, and the Harlem assemblyman was pressuring him to increase the number of low-income units in his new development from fifteen to twenty.

  A flash of humor parted Faye’s lips with Bart’s backhanded compliment. “I take it your day didn’t go too well?”

  Resting his arm over the back of her seat, Bart turned to face Faye. “Would I offend you if I said it was a bitch?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “What made yours wonderful?”

  “I woke up my usual time but decided to stay in bed until hunger pangs got the best of me. I was feenin’ for a down-home country breakfast, so I made scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, grits and homemade biscuits, sat in front of the television and watched everything from The View to Oprah.”

  His dark eyebrows shot up. “You cook?”

  Faye managed to look insulted. “Of course I cook. Who do you think feeds me?”

  “I was under the belief that career women only know how to make reservations.”

  Seeing the amusement in his eyes, Faye laughed. “Now, that’s a sexist statement if I ever heard one.”

  His arm slipped lower to rest over her shoulders. “How many nights a week do you turn into a master chef?”

  “Only one, dah-ling” she said in her best southern drawl.

  “You cook one out of seven days?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes. I cook enough on Sundays for an entire week. I put everything into microwavable containers and reheat them when I get home.”

  “Will you cook for me?”

  Faye rolled her eyes at him. “No! You have a cook.”

  “I cooked for you.”

  “You put a steak on the grill that Mrs. Llewellyn had already marinated.”

  Bart refused to relent. “I still cooked it.”

  “I haven’t cooked for a man since I ended…” Her words trailed off.

  “Since you ended your marriage,” he said intuitively, completing her statement. Turning her head to stare out the side window, she nodded. “You don’t have to cook for me if you don’t want to.”

  Faye looked at him again, and for a long moment Bart studied her with a curious intensity. She knew more about him than he did her. But he intended to use the weekend to penetrate the fragile shell she’d erected to keep him at a comfortable distance.

  The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth, bringing Faye’s gaze to linger there. She didn’t know why, but she liked staring at his firm, sensual lips, lips that had touched hers briefly in a parting kiss. A gentle, comforting kiss that was anything but sexual.

  “You know you got me for assuming you di
dn’t cook.”

  Faye winked at him. “It serves you right for being so opinionated.”

  “I apologize.”

  She inclined her head. “Apology accepted.”

  Bart curbed the urge to run his fingertips along the column of her neck. Her skin was soft as velvet, her natural feminine scent clean and sweet. She’d been feenin’ for food, and he was feenin’ for Faye Ogden. “You should’ve told me you weren’t going to work today because I would’ve arranged for us to fly down earlier this afternoon.”

  Unconsciously her brow furrowed. “When you called to confirm our departure time, I was under the impression it couldn’t be changed.”

  “I could’ve changed it with a phone call.”

  “I suppose I should let you know that I’m not going to work Fridays and Mondays during June, July and August.”

  He removed his arm and opened a small compartment next to the built-in bar. He took out a BlackBerry and activated the calendar feature. His thumbs moved with lightning speed as he entered her name on every Monday and Friday for June, July and August.

  “Are you able to take more time?”

  “How much more?”

  “A couple of weeks.”

  Faye studied his distinctive profile. “I’m also taking vacation the first three weeks of July and August.” She watched as he entered this information. “What have you planned?”

  Bart palmed the cell phone. “How would you like to hang out in Europe with me?”

  The shock of what he was offering hit Faye full force. He’d asked whether she’d go to Europe with him as casually as asking the time. “What countries in Europe?”

  “It’s your choice.”

  “How many choices do I get?” Much to her surprise, Bart showed no reaction to her query.

  “As many as you want.”

  “France.”

  He nodded. “Paris, Cannes and Monaco.”

  Her smile was dazzling. “That’ll do.”

  His smile matched hers. “Have you ever been to Ibiza?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to visit Venice and la Riviera di Ponente?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  Bart reached for Faye again, pulling her to his side. “I want to show you a good time.” Resting his chin on the top of her head, he closed his eyes. “We’re going to have fun, Faye.”

  Relaxing completely, Faye leaned into her client’s lean upper body. He planned to take her to the French, Spanish and Italian Rivieras. Things were happening so quickly that she found it hard to distinguish between fantasy and reality.

  “Did you eat dinner?” Bart asked after a comfortable silence.

  “No.”

  He smiled, tightening his hold on her shoulders. “We’ll eat once we’re airborne.”

  “Which airport are we flying out of?”

  “Newark.”

  It was Friday, rush-hour traffic was a circus, and they were scheduled to lift off at seven. “Do you think we’ll make it in time?”

  “The pilot will wait.” Faye sat up, but Bart pulled her back to lean against him. “We’re not taking a commercial carrier.”

  She didn’t know why, but Faye suddenly felt gauche. CEOs of billion-dollar companies did not stand in line with the masses to fly first-class on commercial carriers. They either owned or rented private jets.

  CHAPTER 39

  Alana told the doorman her name. He checked his list then opened a stained-glass door. She made her way into Hoops, a new Harlem sports bar/club owned by a quartet of basketball players and a hip-hop record producer. She was met by the babble of voices and the driving beat of music from powerful speakers. The interior decor was a mix of East, West and Art Deco with neon lights and sculptures, stained-glass windows and steel-framed chairs with deep plush cushions. Pale blue votives flickered from every flat surface.

  Couples crowded the dance floor, gyrating to the infectious rhythms, while others stood in line for a buffet dinner from which sumptuous aromas tantalized olfactory nerves. People gathered at the spacious bar were two deep. More than half the tables, with seating for eight, were occupied.

  Astrid had called her midweek to inform her that she was to attend a private party at Hoops hosted by the partners to celebrate the NBA’s post-season playoffs.

  She hadn’t met Derrick Warren, one of the cofounders of Bawdy Records, at the P.S., Inc. dinner party, and when she asked Astrid where Mr. Warren had gotten her name the booker responded, saying, “Someone associated with Mr. Warren recommended you attend the soiree.”

  Alana didn’t know who that someone was, but she was grateful for the referral. Becoming a partygoer at Hoops would serve a threefold purpose: she would earn several thousand in commissions, permit her entrée to a coterie of upwardly mobile young African-American men and women and give her more material for the book she’d been writing for years.

  She’d begun a Jackie Collins–style novel, complete with the ubiquitous celebrity and scheming wannabe characters set in exotic locales spanning the globe; but she hadn’t picked up the manuscript in weeks because of writer’s block. She’d come up with reason after reason why she wasn’t writing but none were valid. The fact was, she had more time for herself now that she was alone, but if she were truly honest, she would have to admit the underlying reason was Calvin McNair.

  It was three weeks and he still hadn’t called her; after a heart-searching session with her therapist she decided not to call him. Calvin had programmed her cell-phone number, her direct line at the magazine and even her mother’s number into his cell phone before he’d left for Europe. The only thing she knew was that he’d better have a good excuse for not calling; otherwise she’d put a cussin’ on him that he’d never forget.

  The lighting inside the club was dim but not so dim she couldn’t see where she was going as she followed a hostess across a space crowded with young, beautiful people dressed in the ubiquitous New York City black. She’d also elected to wear black: a pair of stretch pants with a cuffed hem, a Lycra off-the shoulder top that hugged her ample 38D bosom like a second skin, and a pair of high-heel sling-back sandals. She’d stopped at Jade Nails after work for a manicure and spa therapy pedicure.

  The blood-red color on her toes, fingernails and lush lips was certain to attract the attention she sought, along with the flyaway hairstyle with its profusion of curls that moved whenever she turned her head. She’d utilized Faye’s technique for making her dark eyes appear more mysterious by adding smoky-gray and soft black eye shadows. When she saw the results in the mirror, Alana was more than pleased with her new look; there was something about her eye makeup that reminded her of the late-actress/R&B performer Aaliyah.

  A tall figure stepped in front of Alana and she would’ve lost her footing if a large hand hadn’t reached out to steady her. A swoosh of air escaped her parted lips when she found herself imprisoned against a body hard as steel.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Watch it there, sugah.”

  Alana raised her head to see the face of the man whose fingers were manacles around her upper arm. When she did look up it was into the smiling face of a high-scoring point guard for a Midwest basketball team she couldn’t remember.

  Kris Dennison felt as if he’d been poleaxed when he felt the bountiful curves pressed intimately to his body. The woman in his arms was exotic, beyond beautiful with curly black hair, red-brown coloring, slanting dark eyes and a lush, kissable full mouth.

  “Wassup, sugah?” he asked, smiling.

  Staring up at him through her lashes, Alana affected a sensual grin. “You, playa.” She stood close to six feet in her heels, and he towered over her by a full head. The ballplayer had to stand at least six-nine or perhaps six-ten.

  “Who you here wit, sugah?” he asked, deep voice rumbling in a broad chest under a black silk tee and jacket.

  You’re good-looking, talented and make millions of dollars a year yet you can’t talk worth a damn, Alana thought. “I’m a guest of M
r. Warren’s,” she said with a tight smile.

  “Now, if you unhand the lady, Kris, I’ll make a proper introduction.”

  Derrick Warren knew it impolite to stare, yet he couldn’t pull his gaze away from Alana Gardner’s face. Marcus Hampton had described Alana, but his friend and financial consultant hadn’t done the lady justice. She was drop-dead gorgeous.

  Derrick kissed her cheek. Not only did she look good, but she smelled good, too. “I’d like to offer you a very special welcome to Hoops.”

  Alana, assuming the man greeting her was Derrick Warren, pressed her cheek to his. “Thank you, Derrick.”

  There was something about his permanently furrowed forehead and the loose skin around his eyes that made him look like a shar-pei; but what he lacked in the face department he more than made up for in his demeanor and style of dress. The brother was wearing the hell out of his Armani suit. The wool jacket was draped over his broad shoulders in the same manner as European men wore theirs.

  Smiling, Derrick cradled Alana’s hand in the bend of his elbow. “Kris, this lovely lady is Alana Gardner. Alana, Kristofer Dennison.”

  Alana gave the point guard a polite smile. “It’s nice meeting you, Kris.”

  “I’m sorry to drag Alana away,” Derrick said, apologizing to Kris, “but there are a few people I’d like her to meet.”

  “Is she coming on the July Fourth boat ride?” Kris called out as Derrick turned to lead Alana away.

  Derrick stopped and stared at Alana as her lids slipped down over her eyes. “Are you available on that day?”

  Alana raised her gaze to find Derrick watching her. She knew she was flirting with him but didn’t much care. She was alone and lonely. “Do you want me to be available?”

  “Yes, I do.” There was no emotion in his reply or on his face. Alana nodded, and Derrick nodded to Kris. “Yes, she is.”

  The smile that lit up Kris’s handsome face was as bright as Christmas lights. “Later, Alana.”