Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  She admired that.

  If she were totally honest with herself, it turned her on. Big-time.

  “Here?” Jake said, indicating two center seats in a row about one third back from the immense stage.

  “Great.” She dumped all her stuff in the seat next to the one she was going to sit in, then sat down and began to wrestle with the built-in desk.

  “Here. It’s easier if you do it this way.” Jake quickly and efficiently slid the desk up and over, positioning it directly in front of her.

  “Thanks.” She reached for her material and began to organize it on the small desk area in front of her. All around her, men were talking and laughing. Clearly many of the attendees had already gotten to know each other.

  Jake sat down next to her, and his broad shoulder brushed against her slender one. Miranda felt a flush of heat work its way up her throat, and desperately thought cool thoughts, trying to turn down the temperature of her traitorous body. It didn’t seem to want to cooperate with her male disguise, as the feelings she was feeling were all female.

  Mountain lakes, waterfalls, ice cream—

  It wasn’t working. She’d just pictured herself sharing an ice-cream cone with Jake. Start over—mountain lakes, waterfalls—

  “You okay? You look a little flushed.”

  “I’m fine, Jake. It’s just—is it warm in here?” She bit her lip before she added, or is it me?, not wanting to speak in a feminine manner. If she were older, she’d swear she was having a hot flash.

  Damn it, she’d ended her sentence with a question. Men made statements, they didn’t ask questions. At least that’s what Jim had told her.

  “It’s too warm in here,” she said. There.

  “It is kind of warm. Too many bodies crammed in one area.”

  The lights began to dim, and the sound of talking died down along with the rustling of papers as everyone’s attention was directed toward the brightly lit stage.

  “If there’s a fog machine, I’m outta here,” Jake muttered, and Miranda had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Her thoughts exactly.

  And then the Lizard King made his appearance.

  He walked to the center of the stage and into the spotlight, and Miranda was relieved to see he’d ditched the leather pants for an expensive Italian suit. She had an eye for fashion and could swear it was Armani.

  Well, the guy could afford it. She’d estimated about six to seven hundred people here, so the math was simple if you averaged it out. Six hundred fifty people times eight hundred ninety-five, no make it nine hundred, dollars came out to—

  She reached for her pocket calculator and did the math, then swallowed.

  Wow. A very impressive sum. Enough so this guy could afford a closetful of suits.

  Then before she could think about anything else, the program began.

  “Women,” Anton said. “The source of all our problems, right?”

  Several men in the audience laughed. Miranda was glad Jake didn’t. He’d taken out his pen and was already making notes on his legal pad.

  About what? she thought. Anton hadn’t really said anything.

  “They’re perceived as having all the power,” Anton went on, taking the remote microphone out of its stand and beginning to pace the stage like a restless panther in a cage at the zoo. Now he was getting into the whole rock and roll thing. Almost like performance art.

  “All the power!” he said, and a guy behind them yelled, “Yeah!”

  “But do they really?” he said.

  Miranda wriggled slightly in her seat. She had a feeling she was in for a long evening, and wished she’d brought some chocolate. Or a soda. Something so she could pretend she was watching a movie.

  “It’s said,” Anton continued, “that at the beginning of any date, the woman has all the power because she already knows whether the two of you will end up in bed!”

  Murmurs rippled across the vast crowd.

  Jake wrote.

  Miranda stared at the Lizard King. She felt the beginnings of a headache.

  “It’s also said,” Anton continued in that same powerful, authoritative tone, “that she makes up her mind if she’s going to have sex with you within the first thirty seconds of meeting you!”

  More murmuring.

  “So what you’ve all come for this weekend is the secret to turning her no into a yes!”

  Scattered applause. Miranda frowned.

  “Let’s get to work,” Anton said. “Take out your Swiftest Seduction Workbook and turn to page three.”

  Miranda sighed, reaching for her notebook.

  It was going to be a long night.

  “So,” Anton said almost four hours later, “before you return tomorrow morning at eight, I want each of you to push yourselves out of your self-imposed comfort zones and say hello to at least five new people before you arrive tomorrow.”

  Miranda, feeling tired and a bit silly, turned to Jake.

  “Hello.”

  His lips twitched as he fought to repress a smile. “I think he meant new people, Randy. You’ve already met me.”

  “I don’t care. One down, four to go.”

  “I think he also meant women.”

  “Good point. I’ll concede it.” How often had she heard her brother Marty use those exact words? Having brothers certainly gave her a leg up on this whole man thing.

  She gathered all her material and contemplated throwing Anton’s picture away. Maybe burning it in some sort of protective ritual. Then she almost gagged as she saw several men heading toward the stage, photos in hand. She realized they were going to ask for autographs.

  “Gag me,” she muttered. Oops. “I mean, how gross!”

  Jake followed her gaze. “I couldn’t agree more.” He glanced down at her. “I’m about ready to turn in. How about you?”

  Her imagination went into overdrive, but she forced the words out of her mouth to be natural and neutral.

  Neutered, if she were perfectly honest.

  “Sounds good.”

  Within half an hour, they were back in their hotel room. Jake, informing her he doubted he’d be asleep before three or four in the morning, ordered up a pot of coffee.

  “My ideal woman,” Miranda said as she studied the detailed workbook form they had to fill out before tomorrow’s workshop. “I’ve never really thought of my ideal woman.” Understatement of the year.

  Jake was staring at his worksheet, pen in hand. “You don’t have a type?”

  “Nope.” She hesitated. “Do you?”

  “Yeah. Vengeful barracudas.” Then he sighed. “No, I—that was stupid. We were just two people whose marriage didn’t work out.”

  Miranda thought for a moment, then said, “But she didn’t have to go after you the way she did. She must have been pretty angry.”

  “She was.”

  She focused her attention on the form. “Height. Weight. I don’t really care.”

  “Just put NA for nonapplicable.”

  “Good idea.” She began to fill out the form, writing NA in most of the blanks. Ain’t that the truth….

  “It’s not as if we’re going to get a grade,” Jake said, his voice filled with repressed laughter.

  “God, wouldn’t that be awful, to have to admit you flunked The Swiftest Seduction.”

  He started to laugh and she found that she liked the sound of it, that deep, masculine laugh. Staring down at her worksheet, she wrote in, Has to have a great sense of humor. And hopefully get mine.

  Their coffee arrived, and Miranda resisted the urge to pour for both of them. Instead she waited until Jake had poured himself a cup, then helped herself. She’d defer to him, as he was the bigger monkey.

  Well, okay, the only real male monkey.

  She was almost done with the arbitrary list of attributes for her ideal—what, mate? no, her ideal sexual conquest—when Jake got up off the bed, rummaged in his duffel bag, and brought out a pair of pajama bottoms.

  He headed toward their b
athroom and her mouth went dry.

  Before she had a chance to compose herself, he walked back out of the bathroom, clad only in a pair of blue cotton pajama bottoms, barefoot, with that magnificent chest in full view.

  He sprawled out on his bed, on his stomach, as he studied the sheet. “Let me see yours,” he said.

  Before she considered the repercussions, she handed it over, then her heart began to speed up as she realized she hadn’t made her handwriting all that masculine.

  Great.

  Would he guess what was going on?

  “I think I’m going to change as well,” she said, reaching for her pajamas and heading for the bathroom.

  Inside, she shed her clothing with lightning speed and stared at her reflection in the large mirror. Clad only in a pair of red silk bikini panties and the winding strip of cotton cloth she’d wound around her breasts to flatten them down, Miranda took a deep breath and wondered if she should come clean with Jake.

  He might know, if he glanced up and really studied her in her pajamas. As baggy as they were, would he be able to make out the outlines of her feminine figure? Though she was tall, Mother Nature had blessed her with full breasts. But she didn’t like the idea of sleeping all bound up—she wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  Damn.

  Swiftly and silently, she unwound the cloth, then stuffed it in between the clothing she’d taken off. She slipped on the pajamas and studied herself in the mirror.

  She looked more like a girl than ever.

  Well, she’d just have to bluff it out. And if he guessed and demanded to know what the hell was going on, she’d come clean. She was doing an article for her magazine, and that was that. The way Jake had reacted to the seminar, she doubted he’d care one way or the other if she got the scoop on Anton Levine.

  With her clothes in her arms and her heart in her mouth, Miranda unlocked the bathroom door and stepped outside.

  “You’re not all that fussy—” Jake said as he studied Randy’s list, then stopped as he looked up and saw his roommate in his pajamas.

  Jesus. The poor guy looked even less masculine, if that were possible. As much as he’d disliked the first evening of the seminar, maybe there was something there for Randy. Though the minute Jake had that thought, he rejected it. I mean, look at his list of attributes for the woman he wanted to sleep with—most of them were NA, or “nonapplicable.” Except for that sense of humor.

  But what about all that talk about catching fire?

  Jake frowned. Something wasn’t right here.

  “You okay?” Randy asked him.

  At that exact instant, Jake made up his mind. Poor Randy, poor little guy. Surrounded by four sisters and his mother, he hadn’t had a chance. His father was probably one of those guys who was never home. Randy had probably been a short, runty little boy who liked to play with dolls. And he’d most likely been the kid on the playground that everyone had picked on, the one who’d been beaten up by the class bully.

  Maybe they’d even made him cry.

  Jake made up his mind. No matter what Randy looked like, he’d treat him like a man. Perhaps that was the reason Randy was here, in a misguided attempt to reclaim his manhood. He wouldn’t stand in his way.

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just thinking as I was studying your list, and—well, it’s pretty damn sparse. I don’t think it’s exactly what Anton wants.”

  “Do you think a man should have a list in his head? Don’t you think that limits the possibilities? And basically objectifies a woman?”

  Feminine or not, this Randy really knew how to carry on a conversation. All those sisters of his, no doubt.

  “I just don’t like the idea of a list, period,” Jake said. “It strikes me as kind of juvenile.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why don’t you fill in a few details so that Anton won’t bother you.”

  “Good point.” Randy reached over and took the list, then lay back down on the bed and studied it.

  Jake looked at Randy out of the corner of his eye, then smiled. He seemed so young, even at thirty-three. And that haircut! Irish altar boy, all the way.

  Grinning, he got back to work on his own list.

  Miranda studied her worksheet.

  Hair. She thought for a moment, then wrote in, Dark.

  Eyes. She tapped her pen against the sheet, then wrote, Dark blue. And intense.

  Height: As tall as I am, if not taller. Let Anton think what he wanted about that answer.

  Education: College degree. I like ambition in a partner. And smarts. A great mind, good conversationalist.

  Figure: Muscled, athletic, graceful movements, a great walk.

  Voice. She almost wrote in, Deep and masculine, then thought for a moment and wrote, Distinctive. A great bedroom voice. Memorable.

  As she glanced at the other questions, she smiled, realizing what she was doing.

  She was making a list of Jake Blackhall’s best qualities.

  Within half an hour, Miranda gathered all her homework together, piled it on top of one end of the large dresser, then went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, came back out, and climbed into bed.

  “I can turn off the light,” Jake offered.

  “No need to,” Miranda said. “I can sleep through just about anything.”

  “Great. I shouldn’t be much longer.”

  He had trouble sleeping, and envied Randy’s ability to just drop off. As Jake listened to his roommate’s slow, even breathing, he wondered at a fate that would pair him up for the weekend with such a strange little guy.

  He turned his head as he heard his roommate’s voice. Randy muttered something, then moved onto his stomach and buried his head in one of the pillows.

  Even though he was asleep, he was having a rough night. Jake frowned into the darkness. That he could understand.

  Then Randy flopped over on to his back and muttered, “Oh, Jim…”

  Oh, Jim?

  He hadn’t even thought about that possibility. Well…

  Jake lay quietly in the darkness of the hotel room. Things were getting more complicated by the minute. And they still had a day and a half of The Swiftest Seduction to get through.

  He had the strangest feeling that he was going to get one hell of an article out of this weekend.

  3

  Later that same night, Jake was still wide awake.

  He was used to it. It amazed him how little really good sleep he was able to get, yet still function. He couldn’t seem to relax, let go, and fall asleep. He paced the halls of his house late at night; he paced out by the pool, restless. But here at the hotel he could only lie in bed and breathe deeply, trying to fall asleep.

  He hadn’t told Jen how bad it really was. He hadn’t wanted to worry her.

  A noise from the bed across from him caught his attention, and he watched as Randy got up in the dark and walked into the bathroom. The door closed softly, and a bar of light came on from beneath the door. Then water ran from the sink, and Jake had to smile.

  The guy was really modest. He’d never met anyone quite like Randy Ward.

  The water stopped, the light went off, the door opened, and his roommate for the weekend came back out and climbed back into bed, then whispered, “Jake? Are you awake?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still can’t sleep?”

  “Nah.”

  A short hesitation, then, “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Those sisters had trained him well.

  “Nothing I can think of. But I wouldn’t mind talking for a while.”

  “How are you feeling about the seminar?”

  “I was wondering how Anton Levine got to this point.” He laughed. “I doubt if he has any sisters. Or if he does, they’re probably pretty pissed at him.”

  Randy laughed.

  Jake warmed to his subject. This really helped, talking about the foundation of his article. “But what happened? Why would a man start this kind of a business? I don’t think it
’s just about money.”

  “But it’s a considerable amount of money. What, six hundred guys times nine hundred bucks? You do the math.”

  “Yeah, okay. But why this particular type of seminar? Why women? Why is he so frightened of them?”

  “And why,” said Randy, “are six hundred men in Los Angeles eager to sign up for this weekend?”

  Great question. He’d have to include that in his article. Randy really had a fine mind. He could keep up.

  “What is it you do?” Jake asked him. “Your job.”

  “I’m a—a freelance editor. It keeps me busy, and you wouldn’t believe the number of writers who need a good once-over.”

  He laughed. “Oh, yes, I would.”

  “I forgot. You’re a writer. Do you self-edit?”

  “Most of the time. Once in a while, I send a piece to my sister. She’s my toughest critic.”

  “I know what you mean. I have a friend, Jim, who helps me when I can’t get an article just right.”

  That explained the mysterious Jim. Who knew if they were involved or not? A person could talk about anyone in their sleep.

  “There’s something here,” Jake said, talking to both himself and Randy. “Something about this man that’s just beneath the surface that explains everything. I just have to find out what it is.”

  He’s writing anarticle about this weekend, Miranda realized. And it would be a good one. No, make that great. Because Jake Blackhall excelled in exposés; it was the type of writing that had put him on the map. This article would be no exception.

  She wondered if any particular magazine had already bought the article. The one he finally sold it to would be on a national level, like Vanity Fair or Harper’s. Not some local read like Street Talk.

  He was completely out of her league.

  Though one of her dreams was to break into the national magazine market with a really great article, it didn’t depress her that Jake was already there. Miranda knew her own article would come from an entirely different angle. After all, how many women had the opportunity to see Anton Levine for who he really was?

  She found that she loved talking with Jake. And she imagined how much fun it would be to discuss work with him whenever she wanted to—