“Too long, actually,” Lacy gritted, feeling weak.
He suddenly moved to put both his big hands on her shoulders, pulling her to him slightly to look down at her. Lacy couldn’t move. The elevator slowed, purred to a stop, but the doors did not open.
The hallway, she thought frantically as she stared up at him. She would make a break for it. There were always fire stairs in a hotel. She could outrun him going downstairs. Even if he did look like a professional athlete. She braced herself to leap out into the corridor at the first move.
The elevator doors, however, remained shut. The tall man held her with one hand and reached over her shoulder to push a combination number on a bank of buttons to release the computer lock. With a lurch, the elevator started up again. The top button said, penthouse.
Penthouse?
There were several long, terrible seconds while Lacy tried to realize there would be no hotel corridor, no fire stairs. Penthouse? The only way out of something like that was by parachute! The elevator came to a stop, and the doors pulled back.
Oh, God, she saw it really was a penthouse! It was not a hotel corridor but an elegant, small foyer decorated in smoked-glass panels, abstract paintings and chrome chairs against deep chocolate-brown carpeting. She saw a vast room in beige and black and brown, wrapped around by large windows that showed a spangled panorama of lights that was Tulsa, Oklahoma, at night.
“Here we are,” he said, taking her by the arm again.
Lacy allowed him to steer her into the vast room. She could only think hysterically of escape.
And there was none.
Two
“I believe you were drinking Dom Perignon,” he said pleasantly. “I’ll call down for some.”
“No champagne!” Lacy cried shrilly. Where she was now, in the penthouse, was just as bizarre as a wallet jammed full of one-hundred-dollar bills. The room was luxurious! Then there was the fantastic Rolex watch, the tasteful blue-white diamond ring and the fabulous Bulgari cuff links. It was impossible not to think that she might end up with her feet encased in a block of concrete.
It had to be a dream. Or a movie, Lacy told herself. She knew she’d fallen asleep during an in-flight movie on her way back to New York, and all this was percolating through her dream-filled unconscious!
The big male body in the perfect tuxedo had gone to a panel of switches behind a glass and wood bar at the end of the room. As he pushed a switch, an incredibly lush version of “Lara’s Theme,” from Dr. Zhivago, filled the room right up to its vast, wraparound windows. Quadraphonic sound, Lacy thought weakly. It went with everything else. Now, as never before, she had to think of something, and quick!
“Perhaps you’d like something else to drink.” He lifted a bottle of Scotch from under the bar, uncapped it and threw some ice into a glass. His eyes never left her as he poured himself a drink.
Lacy couldn’t control a shudder. This was coming right down to the line, and whatever it was, she didn’t need a map to tell her it was very dangerous—not only to her totally inexperienced body and her new job with Fad but to something else, too. The weird, devastating quiver deep in her flesh returned when he looked at her, like a hot tidal wave coursing through and tightening the most extraordinary muscles, in the most extraordinary places. She’d never felt anything like it before.
Stop that! Lacy told herself sharply. You’re in hot water, stupid! Stop thinking all these things just because some totally gorgeous strange man is looking at you. See if there’s a terrace you can leap from—like they do on Magnum, P.I.
She watched him put his drink down abruptly. He started toward her, moving with such effortless grace that it left her breathless. Lacy readied herself to deliver a karate chop. Strangely she didn’t scream when he took her firmly by the hand and pulled her to him. It was the moment for the karate chop, but she couldn’t do it.
“Shall we dance?” he said in his low, faintly husky voice.
Dance? Her thoughts did a series of flip-flops. DANCE? Now he was going to put those tremendously powerful-looking arms around her and hold her close?
He felt her uncontrollable shaking as he pulled her to him. “You’re very tense,” he murmured. “Just relax.”
The strong, powerful arms that embraced her didn’t help any. He looked down at her, his hard, chiseled banker-gambler’s features impassive.
“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I’d like you to know I appreciate really beautiful things. It’s a passion of mine. And you are”—the appraising gray eyes moved over Lacy’s face, studying her piquant, narrow nose, the arch of her brows, the eyelids with their burden of heavy, fake model’s eyelashes and finally her wide, quivering All-American Girl mouth—”unbelievably lovely. Even in that ridiculous get-up.”
She gathered he didn’t like the fabulously expensive Claude Montana. Before she could protest, he put one hand decorously in the middle of her back, seized her fingers with the other hand and whirled her away in a waltz.
They moved across the thickly carpeted room to Dr. Zhivago’s liquid three-quarter time, Lacy’s stiletto heels occasionally snagging in the deep pile of the carpet. She danced stiffly, pressed against his powerful body, her head spinning helplessly. The black windows of night-time reflected their images as they slow-danced: a tall, magnetically handsome stranger in the superb black shape of his tuxedo, Lacy an outrageous vision of loveliness with her cloud of smoky-blond curls, her slender, long-legged body.
Like most big men, he was light on his feet, an excellent dancer, even though he was so big and rock solid, it felt like being held against Mount Rushmore. Lacy’s nostrils filled with the aroma of expensive men’s cologne, soap, starched Egyptian cotton shirt front and the faint, cleanly pungent scent of his skin. He was dangerously strong; he almost lifted her from her feet with no effort at all when they turned. And Mount Rushmore, Lacy found with rising panic, was very aroused. Talk about virile. She couldn’t miss it, pressed against him like that.
She was trying to ignore the evidence of his interest, leaning away from him tactfully, when he murmured in her ear, “What did you say your name was?”
Don’t tell him, was her immediate reaction. You’ve got to get out of here before anything more happens. “Jane Doe,” Lacy blurted. It was just another of those remarks that came rushing out of nowhere. The evening had been filled with them.
Dr. Zhivago beat on for a few more bars. “That makes me,” he said sardonically, “John Smith, I believe.”
That did it. There she was, being mistaken for a hooker by an aerialist who doubled for Mount Rushmore and who might or might not be a member of the Mob! What had gotten into her, anyway? Red-alert buzzers went into action. Then he suddenly bent his dark head, and the next thing she knew his mouth softly covered hers.
The feel of it was incredible. It was not only national red alert, it was total, sensual wipeout! She was stunned as his warm, firm mouth moved over hers with dazzling gentleness. Gentle? she wondered. Her body jerked like a puppet’s, falling into his arms. Even more gently, his kiss deepened.
“Open your mouth,” he murmured against her lips.
It was as though she had no will of her own. She gasped as his tongue caressed her teeth, trailing urgent fire. Then, as Lacy gave a little sob of amazement, he took the sweetness of her opened mouth.
Zounds! Zap! Bam! Powie! Lights, sparks, fireworks, went off behind Lacy’s eyes. Her feet would not move. It was impossible to escape. She’d never been kissed like that before in her life. She felt herself clinging to Mount Rushmore, with her fingers digging into his perfect tuxedo jacket. What kind of man was this who could slow-dance a hooker so magnificently and then kiss like this? she wondered, dazzled. Tenderly? Gently? With all that incredible bam! zap! powie! et cetera? For a hooker?
Lacy opened dazed eyes and looked straight into the gray expanse of the now-boiling Antarctic Ocean. “You’re unbelievable,” he was murmuring. Mesmerized, Lacy watched as the gray eyes bored into hers, seek
ing answers to as yet unasked questions. “You look so ... untouched.”
Right the first time. Untouched! That was the key word for the day. And she was going to stay that way. She must be out of her mind to let him even hold her like this! “I, uh ... I’ll take that drink now,” Lacy croaked. Anything to get out of his arms. “Make it ginger ale or a Coke, please.”
He didn’t release her. Mount Rushmore was far too absorbed in what he was doing. He held her even closer, fingers splayed and softly rubbing through the silk of her dress. He said, his mouth caressing her hair, “It’s time we got out of these clothes.”
She tore herself free and bounced back from him. Actually, Lacy leaped back from him, executing a fancy, totally spontaneous pirouette that nearly landed her on the floor.
“I don’t take my clothes off!” she yelped. “Never!”
She looked around frantically for the exit, the fire stairs, parachutes, the air force—anything.
He was already shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket. He draped it over one corner of the bar. “You don’t take off your clothes,” he repeated, watching her.
“No, I don’t take off my clothes,” Lacy cried hysterically. There must be some way out of the penthouse, there had to be. She didn’t see anything that remotely resembled a door to a kitchen, or even the bathroom. “It’s my specialty,” she babbled. “I do everything with my clothes on!”
He thought that over, strong, tanned hands planted on narrow hips, his stony features obviously giving it some consideration. Finally he said, “I think I’ll pass on that one. Your clothes, please.”
Now what?
“Ah,” she cried, suddenly inspired. A game plan had formed after all!
All she had to do was get Mount Rushmore in some helpless position, knock him out somehow. Render him immobile so she could rush for the elevator, take it to the lobby and then get out of Tulsa, Oklahoma, quick. From the airport she could call some of the models in the show and tell them she was shipping the Claude Montana back. Forget Scottsdale, Arizona. She could ask them to clear out her hotel room and send her clothes back to New York.
With an unthinking gesture, Lacy threw her silky mane of curls back with one hand and held it, elbow raised, to the back of her head. The profile of her throat, her shoulders and provocatively exposed breasts was instantly outlined. It was the wrong move, she saw immediately. The gray eyes had gone a deep, stormy color.
Aha! She suddenly knew what she could do. She had to approach the fierce black panther fearlessly, stroke him into submission and then hit him over the head with the nearest heavy lamp. But definitely not give him an opportunity to get her into the clutches of his dynamite kisses anymore. The mystery of those had nearly done her in.
Lacy looked around. All the lighting, unfortunately, was recessed in the beige ceiling. There were no lamps. She looked at the big, muscular body apprehensively. Even the famous right to the jaw that had decked Peter Dorsey, New York’s most celebrated lecher-photographer, looked as though it would just bounce off that one.
She suddenly had a brilliant idea. “But I don’t mind undressing you,” she cried with totally false enthusiasm. “Let me help!”
But instead of advancing sinuously, seductively, as she’d planned, in her desperation she practically threw herself at him like a jet-propelled missile, her heels snagging in the carpet to make it an especially erratic launch. He staggered slightly as she zeroed home, grabbing at his shirt front.
“Yes, let me,” Lacy cried. “It’s my—”
“Specialty,” he finished for her. He stood perfectly still, looking down at her with a quizzical expression.
“Yes, how did you know?” she cried.
He allowed her shaking fingers to loosen the tuxedo’s black tie and pull it away. As Lacy stood with the black silk scrap of the tie in her hand, she couldn’t see anything but a broad, never-ending chest. Big and virile, her rattling thoughts registered. For a woman who had emphatically avoided being interested in men since she was seventeen, Lacy was being assailed by a wave of awfully troubling but thoroughly interesting feelings.
She swallowed, hard. Watch what you’re doing, her inner voice warned her. Black panthers pounce.
“Mmmmmm,” Lacy murmured, acting her part, but adding a few shaky mmmmms inadvertently. She made her fingers spread out across the crisp white cotton chest and found something there that went, Thud, thud. The sound did something terrible to her. She was so frightened she could hardly think.
Her fingers scrambled across the shirt buttons. She wanted him to stop breathing and being so warm under her hands and going, Thud, thud, like that, because he was going to hate what was coming next.
The game plan called for her to get his shirt unbuttoned and then yank it down over those big, powerful, muscular arms and entangle him in it so that he couldn’t move while she ran for the elevator. In order to get his shirt unbuttoned right, she discovered she had to pull it out of the neat black trousers.
Very carefully, Lacy dropped her hands to the tabs of the evening suspenders buttoned to the waistband of the black tuxedo trousers. As she touched him, though, he put his big hands over hers. Not stopping her, just covering her hands while he searched her face.
“What is it?” Lacy quavered, trying not to look.
“I want you to stop being so frightened,” he said. “You’re really too lovely not to be...” He hesitated. “Not to be treated well. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” Lacy jittered. She understood all too well. That’s why she had to get out of there.
To her horror, when her hands unfastened his suspenders and gingerly pulled the zipper of his fly down enough to get his shirt out, his hips were so narrow that his trousers sort of slithered slowly down around his knees.
Lacy stared. Her fashion-trained mind registered: sculpted Gianni Versace briefs, raw Italian silk in a gold-beige color, with interwoven self-supporting spandex, suggested list price, $95.00. Available at better men’s stores in New York, Palm Beach, Dallas-Fort Worth and Beverly Hills. Semi-transparent. Lacy couldn’t believe what she saw. Mount Rushmore was enormous all over.
With a muffled cry, Lacy grabbed the shirt to yank it over his arms. She dragged on it, leaning her weight on the cloth, hauling the shirt down to his wrists, so he couldn’t lift his hands, swathed in strong, tight Egyptian cotton.
She had a sudden, crazy desire to weep. It was like putting your favorite tiger to sleep at the vet’s. All she needed now was the heavy lamp.
Lacy staggered out of harm’s way. But he only stood looking down at his entrapped arms and hands quite carefully, his legs encumbered by the dropped trousers around his knees. While she panted in terror, he lifted his dark head, eyes gone quite cool.
“I’m really not,” he said carefully, his arms still trapped, “into bondage or anything like that.”
With a loud scream, Lacy threw herself across the room, almost falling headlong before she reached the foyer and the elevator.
“Please,” she howled, punching the button, “open up!” She heard the sound of the cage rising. When she turned to look over her shoulder, she saw him still standing where she’d left him, watching her calmly. Then she saw him hunch his powerful shoulders and heard the distinct sound of ripping cloth. Rrrrrrrrrp. The whole back of the shirt just gave way. She lunged inside. He was unfastening the gold cuff links to pull the shirt off when the elevator doors closed.
Lacy sagged against the wall of the elevator in dry-eyed fright. She was free, she was home safe. She wasn’t a fifteen-hundred-dollar all-night hooker anymore! Only —
Good grief! She still had the money!
She still carried the little black peau de soie silk handbag over her shoulder. She’d never taken it off!
Lacy grabbed at the small purse and opened it. A roll of one-hundred-dollar bills popped up in it just as the elevator came to a stop at the twentieth floor.
The doors didn’t open. Lacy stared at the panel of buttons, clutching the fifteen
hundred dollars in cash in her fist. The computer lock to make it go down into the hotel, she realized numbly. She didn’t have the combination!
“Aaagh!” Lacy cried in violent despair.
The next moment there was a jolt, and the elevator began to rise,
“Oh, no,” she wailed, knowing where it was going. He was pressing the button to bring it back up! She was going to faint. It couldn’t end like this! She was going to suffocate, her heart was racing so.
“Help,” she whispered as the doors opened.
He stood there. He had taken off his shirt and his impeccably tailored evening trousers and his elasticized hose and his polished black oxfords. All he had on his sleek, powerful body were the Gianni Versace self-supporting spandex raw-silk briefs. Semi-transparent, Lacy noted, shaking uncontrollably. And a perfect flat gold chain around his neck, the Rolex gold watch on his wrist, the diamond ring on his finger. He wore a look of icy reserve as he surveyed the roll of bills clutched in Lacy’s hand.
Her fee, Lacy realized, staring down at it. She’d followed her game plan, tied him up and leaped into the elevator with fifteen hundred dollars. A scam. From the look in his eyes she could see he knew what the word meant, too.
He was holding a bar glass in his hand.
“I fixed your ginger ale,” he said.
Three
“It’s not what you think it is,” Lacy cried. “I don’t want your money! I’m not even a hustler. I’m really a model!”
“Of course,” he said. His hand seized her fingers and placed them around the glass of ginger ale. “Here’s your drink. I’m not going to call the cops, so just relax.”
“You aren’t?” she squeaked.
“No.” He released her arm. “We have an arrangement for the evening, and I’d like to get on with it. I appreciate,” he said evenly, “that this must be a tough way for you to make a living, operating a scam. Obviously either you make big money or you’re desperate.”
Hustle Sweet Love Page 2