“You’re sick,” Joe said as he reached for his beer. They sat at a table at the crowded pizzeria their parents owned. All around them, people called out greetings and holiday best wishes at an ear-deafening level. He leaned closer to the table to make himself heard. “Why don’t you just buy them for her yourself?”
Tony groaned. “Because then I’ll be a sex-craved pervert who doesn’t respect the ordeal she’s gone through.” Tony seemed to shrink in his seat as he continued. “I’ll hear all about the worst pregnancy ever, the thirty-hour labor and the four months of being enslaved by my demanding, colicky son. And I’ll add another month of celibacy to my sentence.”
Joe hid a grin. Tony Santori—the Mack truck of the Holy Name High School football team a few years ago—was completely whipped by a woman who stood no taller than his chin.
No thanks. None of that for him. No matter how hard his family pushed brown-eyed beauties in his path to try to rope him into marriage, Joe was staying free and clear. Not that he had anything against brown-eyed beauties. Hey, he’d gone out with two different ones in the past few weeks. But he didn’t like the hearth-and-homey women his mother, grandmothers and sister-in-law kept coming up with.
No hearth. No home. No wife and ring and hapless husband who couldn’t get laid for months because he’d been, one, stupid enough to get his wife pregnant and, two, nutless enough to agree to no sex because his wife didn’t feel sexy after the pregnancy.
No thank you, not for Joe Santori.
“So, you want me to be the one who’s the sex pervert?” Joe asked. “How’s Mama gonna like that, me giving Gloria a wrapped present with hooker drawers inside?”
Tony tsked. “It’s a secret exchange, Joe.”
Joe shot him an incredulous look. “And you haven’t realized after all these years that Mama decides who everybody draws?”
Judging by Tony’s wide-eyed look, no, he hadn’t known. Joe loved the little—big—prince dearly. But he was often damn glad the gene pool had spat out the bulky and slow progeny first, leaving the lean and sharp genes for him—son number two.
Finally, feeling sorry for the poor, horny bastard, Joe muttered, “How about I get her a gift certificate to some store that sells that kind of stuff? Would that work?”
Tony’s face lit up like a starving dog who’d been thrown a bone. Then he frowned. “But don’t get one from a department store or somethin’. She’ll spend it on the baby.”
“Ladies’ store only,” Joe agreed.
“But a kinda skanky ladies’ store, okay? If it’s a nice one, she’ll buy some white boob-high granny underwear or nursing bras or something.” His brother visibly shuddered.
Dear God, please get me out of this conversation without hearing any more details I really don’t wanna know.
“Fine, Tony. I’ll do it.”
And that was how Joe found himself eighteen hours later at a brand-new Michigan Avenue shopping complex, The Red Doors. Some of Joe’s workers, who’d come into the office today to pick up their holiday bonuses, had mentioned the place. Not skanky in any way, its boutique, Sheer Delights, reportedly sold only the sultriest lingerie. He doubted he’d see any granny underwear or nursing bras. Not that he’d ever seen any on a woman before, thank heaven. That’d be enough to make any bachelor turn celibate.
Joe had to admit the complex was a good idea. The Red Doors was a one-stop center where women could shop for themselves in the boutiques, but also where men could shop for the women in their lives. Its unique hook was the computer system where guys could enter their wife’s or girlfriend’s measurements, coloring and preferences, and come up with the ideal gift. Either jewelry, lotions and perfumes, or, as in the case of Sheer Delights, lingerie. It was probably especially successful with men who got palpitations at the thought of entering a lingerie store and confronting all kinds of scary undergarments.
Inside, he asked about the gift certificate and was told that since the center had only been open a short time, he’d have to wait while they found some. In the meantime, he was invited to look around, and was especially encouraged to check out the private computer kiosks.
Following the instructions of the perky salesgirl, Joe made his way through the huge bottom floor of the complex. He passed a comfortable-looking coffee shop area, complete with juice bar and attentive staff.
Toward the back, beneath the sweeping staircase that led shoppers up to the three boutiques, he found several closet-size kiosks with louvered doors. Inside a vacant one was a desk with a computer terminal. He pulled up the program as if he were really shopping. “What would I like to purchase? Jewelry? Nah, let’s cut right to it and see some silk and lace,” he muttered out loud.
When the computer asked him to enter the coloring of the woman for whom he was buying, he paused. “Not Gloria.” No way was he going to put his sister-in-law’s information in here. The thought gave him the heebie-jeebies. Instead he started entering details off the top of his head. “Long, straight, light brown hair,” he said as he chose. He added more preferences: midnight-blue eyes, heart-shaped face. “Tiny cleft in her chin.” What could he say? He liked a bit of stubbornness in a woman.
When it came to body shape, there was no contest. None of that model-thin type for him. He liked curvy women. Very curvy women. With particular emphasis on the northern curves, as politically incorrect as it might be to admit it.
After he’d finished, he leaned back in his chair to wait, wondering if he was about to see Julie Roberts’s head on Marilyn Monroe’s body. “This’ll never work,” he said with a sigh.
The screen flashed dark, then a murky shape began to emerge from the blackness of the computer monitor. The hair, the chin, that face, those eyes—not to mention the figure.
She was his fantasy woman come to life.
“Unreal,” he whispered.
Joe sat up straight in his chair and leaned closer to the screen. Reaching out his hand, he traced the figure of the woman with the tip of his finger. He’d seen her before. In his dreams. This was the woman he’d had erotic fantasies about since he was old enough to know what erotic meant.
“Who are you?” She couldn’t be real. She was a computer-generated image put together out of the checklist he’d pulled from his subconscious and entered into the program.
She still awed him, though. Only about the size of a doll on the screen, she was perfect in every detail. From the highlights in her long golden-streaked brown hair to the depth of blue in her eyes. It was matched by the sapphire-blue teddy she wore, which clung to high, full breasts, complete with nearly visible dark nipples. Her tiny waist was accented by the curve of her hips and the slim, creamy legs.
Joe’s heart raced. Sweat broke out on his brow. He stared at her for a long time. “Oh, wow, lady, do I wish you existed.”
Several minutes later, when he finally managed to pull himself away to collect his gift certificate, Joe somehow found himself making another unexpected purchase.
A sapphire-blue teddy.
CHAPTER ONE
Seven weeks later
“OH, MR. SANTORI, back again, I see. How did your lady friend like the pink ensemble?”
Joe cringed as Dixie, the attractive, middle-aged sales manager of The Red Doors, greeted him on his arrival at the complex Monday afternoon. He’d hoped to sneak past the pickup counter in the front vestibule unnoticed. “Just fine, thanks.”
Not pausing to chat, he pushed through the interior red doors into the main downstairs area of the center. He knew this place like the back of his hand. It had become his favorite shopping spot in the past seven weeks. The fact that he shopped for a ghost woman…well, nobody else had to know that, did they?
Besides, he planned to stop. He really did. Today was it, his last visit. He had several pieces of tagged, unworn lingerie hanging in his closet at home already—lingerie he’d purchased for the woman who existed only in his mind and on the computer screens at The Red Doors. Should his mother ever come over and find the
m, he’d never hear the end of it.
So, today was the last time, dammit. He had to get over this wacky need to come look at his computer dream woman before every real woman in his life—and in his little black book—got tired of waiting for him to call! Valentine’s Day was four days away and phantom women didn’t make for the best hot dates on the one night of the year a guy was guaranteed to get laid.
With a nod to the gentleman who ran the café area of the center, he ducked into one of the private computer rooms, sat and began keying in his familiar list. Long, straight, light brown hair, heart-shaped face, midnight-blue eyes, tiny cleft. And this time… “White negligee” he typed.
Then, there she was…clad all in sheer, diaphanous white like the wickedest, sultriest bride ever born.
“You’re not buying this,” he told himself, knowing he was going to max out his credit card if he kept investing in expensive lingerie for a phantom woman.
Bullshit. Of course he was buying it, as he’d bought so many other things from Sheer Delights in the past seven weeks.
He sometimes thought he was single-handedly keeping the place in the black. Though, judging by the number of shoppers he generally saw both in the downstairs coffee bar and computer area, and in the upstairs mezzanine where the three boutiques were located, they’d probably do okay without him.
Before he could convince himself to get up and leave, he heard a noise from the next kiosk. Though the screening rooms offered privacy from prying eyes, with their six-foot-high walls and swinging louvered doors, they certainly weren’t soundproof.
And someone next door was making some noise.
“Ooohhh.”
His eyes widened at the woman’s long, low moan.
“Oooh, my!”
Joe grinned. Obviously somebody was going for it in the next room. Perhaps a couple getting a little carried away while doing some Valentine’s Day shopping?
“Oh, my God!”
Wow, he must have been totally engrossed by his fantasy woman if the couple next door had progressed to the “Oh, my God” stage without him hearing anything. He had to hand it to them. Whoever the lovers were, they had to be pretty ballsy to go at it in a public dressing room in the middle of a Monday afternoon.
They definitely didn’t need an audience, and Joe sure as heck wasn’t a voyeur, so it was time to go. Before he could stop himself, though, he clicked on the order button for the white negligee, then exited the shopping system. The neatly wrapped nightie would be waiting for him at the pickup counter on the way out. He’d have to endure a knowing smile from one of the salesgirls, all of whom quite naturally assumed he was an incurable romantic since he came in so often to buy his lady friend such lovely things.
Somehow, it seemed slightly less pathetic to buy the stuff than to drift in here every week, moon over his cyber dream girl, then leave without spending a dime. He told himself he might actually find the right woman someday—way in the future—and have use for the secret stash in his bedroom closet. More likely he’d end up bringing it all back. Or, even more likely, considering how embarrassing it would be to return a bunch of unworn lingerie, he’d donate it to charity.
Grabbing his leather jacket off the back of his chair, he slipped out of the kiosk, trying to be quiet. Hopefully the amorous ones hadn’t even realized anyone had been next door. He’d stepped past the louvered doors when he heard the woman’s voice again. “Oh, please, no.”
Joe paused. If the next words were, “Don’t stop,” he’d just walk on by. If they weren’t….
He decided to stick around to make sure the lady was okay.
After a moment of silence Joe heard a tiny sound, like the plaintive whimper of a kitten. The sound grew louder, both in volume and in emotional despair. Then she began to repeat one word, over and over. “No, no, no.”
Okay, enough was enough. The lady had said no and, dammit, she’d obviously meant it. Not even hesitating, Joe turned on his heel, pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
A woman sat at the terminal. Joe cast a quick glance around the tiny room. No man, no lover. She was here alone. Had he imagined the moans? “Excuse me, miss, are you all right?”
She turned to face him, enabling him to see her clearly for the first time. Joe’s heart skipped one beat, then another.
You’re dreaming, Joe.
He had to be. This woman couldn’t be here. She didn’t exist. Not her, with the long, straight, light brown hair, heart-shaped face, midnight-blue eyes, and tiny cleft in her quivering chin.
One detail convinced him he wasn’t home asleep in his bed, having another erotic dream.
The utterly heartbroken tears coursing down her cheeks.
MEG O’ROURKE’S DAY had started normally enough. Typical mid-winter projects at the parochial school where she taught second grade. Excited seven-year-olds wanting to make valentines instead of read. A trio of workmen whistling at her from a construction site when she’d walked to work from her apartment.
Huh? Workmen didn’t whistle at Meg O’Rourke. She made sure of that, wearing dull, shapeless skirts and thick sweaters. She had mastered the art of remaining nondescript, with her loose clothes, plus her long, boring brown hair pulled into a simple clip at the back of her neck, and very little makeup on her face. It was hard enough being a teacher at a restrictive school in the neighborhood where she’d grown up and everybody—but everybody—knew her and her folks. She wanted no more attention to her physical appearance than she already got.
Meg had come to accept the way she looked. It hadn’t been easy, particularly since the changes had started when she was only eleven years old, practically still playing with dolls! Her mother had glowed, her father had glowered, the neighborhood boys had snickered and her friends had whispered about her.
All because Meg O’Rourke was built like a brick shithouse.
She hated that expression, but it was pretty accurate. She was way more curvy than was fashionable. Big bust, teeny waist, full, round hips and long legs. If she hadn’t been a good Irish-Catholic girl from a respectable ethnic Chicago neighborhood, she probably could have made a fortune as an exotic dancer. Well, if she could dance, which she could not. Except the Electric Slide, because, really, what woman who’d gone to the weddings of at least ten girlfriends in the past few years couldn’t do that one?
Anyway, life was tough enough with overprotective parents living blocks away, a dour-faced priest as a boss, and her own embarrassment about her, um, assets. So the attention from the workers, combined with last week’s flirtatious attitude from the guy who owned the neighborhood deli, and the request for a date from the uncle of one of her students, had been real surprises.
This morning, her friend and co-worker, Jenny, had clued her in. Jenny’s boyfriend swore he’d seen Meg posing, nearly naked, in pictures at some new lingerie shop in The Red Doors.
At first she’d laughed. She’d never posed naked in her life. Though she wouldn’t admit it to Jenny, she’d never been completely naked in front of anyone in her entire adult life. Her one and only sexual relationship, back at her small, strict college, had been more of a back seat groping kind of thing. Clothes were never completely removed because campus security could come by with flashlights at any time.
Looking back, she didn’t care. Bad sex was probably better with clothes on. Good sex might be worth total nudity, though at the rate she was going, she’d probably never find out. Not only was her phone not ringing off the hook with potential dates, but her entire block provided a perimeter of protection better than any birth-control device known to man. “Peter and Paul Street,” she sometimes muttered. “More like Peter Repel street.”
She couldn’t have coffee with a man without her mother finding out and grilling her about weddings and babies.
So she completely ignored the possibility that anybody could have mistaken her for a lingerie model. Jenny had insisted it was true, however, and convinced her to investigate. Which is why she’d come here to the shop
as soon as school let out today.
She wished she hadn’t. Sitting in the tiny cubicle, staring at an image of herself on a computer terminal dressed in the kind of black leather hootchie-mama outfit she’d never imagined really existed, she wished she’d never heard of The Red Doors.
She especially wished she hadn’t when a big, gorgeous man burst into the room, looking ready to do battle. She turned to stare at him, trying to blink away the tears.
“This room is occupied,” she managed to whisper, though her throat was thick and tight. The guy would have to be completely blind not to see she was crying. Before she could ask him to leave, however, she saw him quickly scan the tiny space.
She quickly swung her chair back around, banging on the keyboard to close the image on the computer screen before he saw it. “F what?” she muttered under her breath, unable to remember the instructions. Instead of getting rid of the provocative picture, though, she only succeeded in enlarging it. She accidentally zoomed in so the top of her head was cut off, and her breasts filled the screen in pinup girl proportions.
Meg was not a stranger to computers. But frustration, anger, and a heaping helping of humiliation combined to make her brain freeze. She kept banging keys, but couldn’t erase the image. “Control Alt this, you rotten, miserable piece of…”
“I think it’s locked up,” he said softly.
Meg mentally ordered a bolt of lightning to shoot through the ceiling and strike her down as she remembered the stranger in the room with her. He hadn’t left. Swiveling around on the rolling chair again, she looked up at him and waited for what would inevitably come next. As the man’s eyes widened in recognition of the black-leather-clad temptress on the computer screen, Meg wrapped her arms tightly around her body. She held her breath, anticipating the slimy come-on, the flirtatious remark, the gawking or the leer.
The stranger did none of these. He immediately turned his attention away from the screen and stepped closer, allowing the doors to swing shut behind him. “You’re alone.”
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