by Desiree Holt, Lisabet Sarai, Lily Harlem, Elizabeth Coldwell, Wendi Zwaduk, Imari Jade
“Explain what?” Zeke asked. “What’s going on?”
“Remy owns this building. He was going to evict us. Now this letter says that he’ll graciously allow us to stay. How generous of you, Mr Saint-Michel.”
“Ruby, please. I didn’t find out that you were the tenant until that first night at the bar. Meanwhile, my reaction to you… I didn’t know what to do. Honestly, the last thing I wanted was to hurt you.
“I bought the building because I wanted to open a restaurant. I had one in the French Quarter, years ago…” The ghosts were back in his eyes. “After Hurricane Katrina, the place was demolished…and my wife, my daughter… I came to New York to try and forget, to start a new life. This place seemed perfect.”
“Except for the tiny detail that it was occupied…”
“After that first night, you had me totally confused, Ruby. I hadn’t been with a woman since my family was killed. I thought I’d never love anyone again. Then you… I wanted you so badly. I was terrified that I might lose you.”
Remy stood there, twisting his hands together, his eyes pleading. Ruby fought down a surge of sympathy. “A lot of concern for yourself, it seems, and not much for me.”
“Please forgive me. I love you, chere. I’ve been stupid, but love sometimes is.”
Ruby leant back, feeling weary and broken. “If I can’t trust a lover to be honest…”
“Give him a break, Ruby.” Zeke, who’d been hovering in the doorway, took a step towards her. “He made a mistake. Everyone does, occasionally. You should have told me about the eviction notice, but you didn’t.”
“That was different…”
“Not really. Love means being open and honest, but for some of us—including you, darlin’—it takes a while to learn how to do that.”
Remy sank to his knees before her, his head bowed. The masterful, self-assured man who had swept her off her feet had disappeared. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Ruby. Please…”
“Look at me,” she told him. In his gaze she saw raw devotion and behind that, the shadows of his grief. Her anger melted.
“You can stay here rent-free if you like,” he said. “I’ll even deed the building over to you.”
Taking his hands, Ruby raised him to his feet. “Thanks, baby, but that wouldn’t be right.”
“Why not?” Zeke asked. “If that’s what he wants to do…”
“It would be too easy.”
“Does it always have to be hard, darlin’?” Zeke pulled her out of her chair and into his arms. “Haven’t you paid your dues? Why not take what fortune’s offered?”
“I’d feel like I was selling myself—my love in exchange for the Crossroads.”
Remy pressed himself against her back, sandwiching her between them. “Suppose we go into business together,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ll open my restaurant on the ground floor. You can move the club to the second and third floors.”
“Then where will Isaiah and I live?” Ruby began to melt in the heat of their bodies. Remy stroked her hair. Zeke nuzzled her neck.
“With me,” Remy said. “I’ve got a huge place on Central Park West…” His growing erection pressed into the small of her back.
“Or with me.” Zeke swept his hands over her hips. “You know I’ve got room…”
“Or the three of us could find a place together,” offered Remy.
“Wait just a minute!” Ruby laughed. “I’m not ready for that. You know I want to keep my independence…”
“And that you’re stubborn as a mule, darlin’!” Zeke’s tongue tickled her ear. Sparks skittered down her spine to her pussy. “But you don’t have to decide right now.”
“Yes,” Remy agreed, reaching between her body and Zeke’s to thumb her nipple. “Just think about it.”
Ruby wondered whether she could come just from teasing, fully clothed.
“I will,” she agreed. “I promise.” Reluctantly she extricated herself from their dual embrace. “But right now I’ve got a bar full of customers who came here to hear the blues.” She took their hands. “So let’s go downstairs. And sing.”
About the Author
I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I’ve written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and of course, erotica. I’m the author of six erotic novels and three short story collections. I also edited the ground breaking anthology Sacred Exchange, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection Cream: The Best of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association.
My short stories have appeared in dozens of print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Brussel, Kristina Wright, D.L. King, and Alison Tyler. In my so-called spare time, I also review books and film for the Erotica Readers and Writers Association and Erotica Revealed. I also edit the charitable erotica series Coming Together Presents.
My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serendipitously entwined more than a decade ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although granted, no more than a minor footnote!).
I’ve always loved travelling; my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me his foreign adventures. Since then, I have visited every continent except Australia, though I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.
Email: [email protected]
Lisabet Sarai loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com
Also by Lisabet Sarai
Raw Silk
Incognito
Serpent’s Kiss
Truce of Trust
Necessary Madness
Fire in the Blood
Halloween Heart-throbs: Rendezvous
Bound Brits: Getaway Girl
Brit Party: Monsoon Fever
Brits in Time: Shortest Night
Christmas Spirits: Tomorrow’s Gifts
Gaymes: Crossed Hearts
Yule Be Mine: Almost Home
Master Me: The Understudy
Seeing Stars: Bodies of Light
ORCHESTRATING MANOEUVRES
Lily Harlem
Dedication
To lovely Jo, a most excellent keeper of secrets, I adore you.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Vogue: Advance Magazine Publishers, Inc.
Cosmo: Hearst Communications, Inc.
Gucci: PRR
La Perla: La Perla
MTV: MTV Networks, Inc.
Rolex: Rolex SA
Estrella Archs: Estrella Archs
Bollinger : Renaudin Bollinger
iPod : Apple, Inc.
The Ritz : The Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company, LLC
Savoy : Fairmont Hotels and Resorts
Cristal: Louis Roderer
Oscar: Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
Chapter One
I flopped back on my mountain of pillows, gasping, writhing and shoving Enrique—my new thick, black Rampant Rocker vibrator—into my pussy higher and harder. He was great—long, wide and lined with vein-shaped ridges. And because he was so new to my collection, he seemed to have extra energy, extra enthusiasm for pleasing me. It was as if he was competing for a favoured position in my top drawer.
“Oh, yes, yes,” I called out, upping the speed and finally letting his wicked forked attachment buzz ar
ound my clit. “Oh, yes, Enrique!” I twanged forward, sweat forming in my cleavage and my heart pounding. Flattening my palm over my pussy, I held him against my deliciously tormented clitoris. Electric sensations surged through my nerves. My internal muscles clamped and moisture seeped over his shaft, easing his way as I pumped his impressive girth in and out, in and out.
I squeezed my eyelids shut and instantly Dale’s face appeared before me, a hot sheen on his brow and his mouth parted as he gave in to a fierce climax. Tearing open my eyes to shake the painful, memory-laden image, I stared at the huge framed poster of my own face gracing the cover of Vogue last month and came—sharp, intense and breath-taking. God, Enrique is good, worth every penny.
Panting, I pulled Enrique out and tossed him to the bottom of the bed. He’d served his purpose. Started my day with an orgasm. That was why I’d bought him. Carlo just wasn’t doing it for me anymore, his pink, plastic shaft pale and insipid, his rotating glans no longer a novelty and he just didn’t hit the spot with his thin little ears.
I glanced at the clock and sighed. Ten forty-five. I supposed I should get out of bed. Perhaps I could go and get a pedicure—I was already fed up with the Baby Bunting-coloured nail varnish I’d had applied three days ago at The Spa. Or maybe Naomi would be up for champagne and caviar at Jenson’s. I frowned and tried to remember if she was eating at the moment. I couldn’t be sure, but it was worth a try. I rolled onto my stomach and reached for my cell. There were two missed calls, one from my agent and one from my mother. I would sort them out tomorrow.
“Naomi, darling,” I said when she answered on the first ring. “What are you doing today? Fancy some bubbles?” I flipped onto my back and stretched my legs up towards the ceiling, a combined inside leg of an impressive sixty-six inches.
“Tiffany, babe, I thought you would be here. It’s the Tiara event.”
I sat upright and folded my legs. “What…today?”
“Yes, didn’t you speak to Rachel?”
I groaned. “No, I’ve been avoiding her. She’s crazy at the moment, too many hormones.” My agent of four years was in the first few months of pregnancy and driving me nuts with her talk of babies. As if I would be interested in babies—if I didn’t have a perfectly flat stomach I would be out of a job.
“Well you ought to give her a call.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll brace myself.”
“Come on, snap out of it. Where’s your spark gone? Enough moping already, get back out working, if not for the money then for your sanity.”
I could always rely on Naomi to say it how it was. Since Dale had left me three months ago, I’d struggled to get my usual enthusiasm for the world of modelling that I loved so much. Some people had their hearts broken and threw themselves into work—not me. I just wanted to lounge around, play with my toys then head out for something bubbly to drown my sorrows in.
“It will do you good, Tiff,” Naomi was saying, “to get some gigs in the diary and meet some new people. Don’t let him win like this, babe. Show him what he’s missing and he’ll come crawling back.”
Sliding to the side of the bed, I had a sudden rush of determination. She was right. I would snap out of my wallowing. Okay, so Dale had wanted a ‘break’ from dating one of the UK’s highest paid models but still, surely I could find a way with all my connections and attributes to make him wake up to his foolishness. Let him see that I was more than just a face and a body.
I’d made him happy, he needed me in his life, our love was meant to be. I knew all that, so why didn’t he?
I stood and squared my shoulders, pulling in a deep breath. Yes, I’d hit him with a media slap so hard he’d crawl back, begging, on hands and knees. I would teach him that asking for a ‘break’ then not calling all this time to make up was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.
But was it?
Sighing, I walked naked to the bathroom, wondering why my self-confidence felt so low despite being in demand worldwide for catwalks and cover-shots. Naomi was still chattering in my ear, telling me about a concert she’d been to. Two male pianists—Italians—gorgeous and taking the music industry by storm with racy videos and saucy stunts. Shocking the hell out of toffs who thought they knew more than anyone else about classical music and didn’t believe it should be played by anyone not wearing a tuxedo or a ball gown.
Finally I heard Naomi bark at a makeup artist, her thin temper slipping as apparently one eyebrow hair was plucked without her consent. “I’ll catch you later, Tiff—they’re a bunch of morons here—but remember what I said. Get out there before everyone forgets who you are or you get a fucking wrinkle.”
I snapped shut my cell phone then reached for my toothbrush and began to scrub by teeth as I called Rachel. “Hewwo, Rach, it mhwee,” I said through foamy mint.
“Tiffany, darling, thank goodness you called. I’ve got the most fabulous opportunity for you today but we don’t have a minute to waste. You need to get over to Notting Hill, darling, fast…like, you should have been there an hour ago.”
I spat in the sink and stared into the mirror, checking no wrinkles had sneaked up on me overnight. They wouldn’t dare. “Why what’s going on in Notting Hill?”
She sucked in a breath, held the tension for a long, dramatic second then said, “Well.” She finally breathed out. “Ingresso Livello are filming a new video today and they want you!”
“Who?” I asked, pouting at my reflection and tilting my chin. I had a little flush of colour on my cheekbones from Enrique’s skilful vibrating. It suited me.
“You, darling, they want you.”
“Yes, I gathered that, but who wants me?”
She sighed. “Ingresso Livello…you know, the pianists that played at The Royal Albert Hall last weekend. Everyone who’s anyone went. They had pole dancers alongside their grand pianos and served champagne in glasses shaped like women’s torsos at the after party.”
“I didn’t go.”
Rachel put on her sternest voice. “I sent you a ticket and called you about it twice, Tiff, but if you don’t open your mail or answer your phone, you’re going to miss things.”
I tutted, but silently agreed that I really must sort through the ever-growing pile of envelopes by my front door and stop hitting silence whenever my cell rang and it didn’t flash the name Dale.
Cogs turned in my brain, sliding and slipping into place as I flicked on the shower. Naomi’s conversation came flooding back to me—Italian pianists causing a storm with their sexy videos, hot studs with talented fingers and shameless images alongside beautiful classical music. Ingresso Livello, yes, now the foreign name was familiar. I’d heard people talking about them when I’d been out and about in the clubs.
“Okay,” I said to Rachel. “Text me the address, call them and let them know I’ll be there within the hour…say I had a family emergency or something.”
“Great!” Rachel said. “You won’t regret this, Tiff. Not only are Ricardo and Nari drop-dead gorgeous, but this video could catapult you into acting. So smile for the camera and do your best not to look so damn depressed.”
I huffed and clicked off my cell. Stepped into the shower and let the piping hot water rain down on my body. I was not acting depressed, just having some ‘me time’ while I fixed my broken heart. Surely I was entitled to that. Dale and I had been together for over two years. It was taking a lot of adjusting to not having him there.
I reached for an exorbitantly expensive shower gel and covered my body in vanilla and frangipani suds. Of course I knew Rachel and Naomi were right. When you’re a well-known model, there’s always someone younger and prettier coming up behind you, happy to take your crown and your work. Making the most of this opportunity was the sensible thing to do. I knew that really. Plus it would give me something to do for the day.
* * * *
The address in Notting Hill led me to a grand private home, with black wrought iron gates and a high cream-coloured wall covered in ivy. After paying the taxi fare, I
pressed the intercom with my long, French manicured nail.
“Who is it?” an American female voice asked after I’d been forced to press the button twice.
“Tiffany O’Dell,” I said, folding my arms and tapping my gold sandal on the pavement. I didn’t like waiting.
“Finally! Great, come on in.”
There was a buzzing noise then a small gate within the large gate clicked open. I stepped through it, ducking my head slightly then secured it shut behind me. I found myself in a courtyard packed full of terracotta flower pots spilling their pretty contents. I sashayed up to the main door. Just as I reached it, a short lady in a brown and orange checked dress and wearing black, round glasses pulled it open.
“Tiffany,” she said with a broad smile and stepped frumpy flat pumps over the threshold. “So pleased to meet you. I’m Nancy, I’m directing the shoot today.”
I raised my brows. Not what I was expecting. Holding out my hand I shook hers. “Lovely to meet you. So sorry about, er…being late. Bit of a crisis at home, if you know what I mean.” I shrugged.
“You’re here now, that’s what’s important. But we must hurry…time is money and all that.” She turned and led the way into the high ceilinged hallway. “Nari and Ricardo are keen to meet you. Apparently they are big fans and couldn’t believe their luck last week when you agreed to be the guest star of Il Piacere de Tre.”
“Mmm, yes, good.” I really should have picked up that call from Rachel, and I really must speak to her about booking me in for stuff without telling me. Still, if she hadn’t, I supposed I wouldn’t be here. “What does it mean, il piacere de tre?”
Nancy stopped and turned to me. Behind her glasses her blue eyes sparkled and she rubbed her hands together like a conspirator. “‘The pleasure of three’, Tiffany, il piacere de tre means ‘the pleasure of three’.”