“Yes! No!” she cried. Actually she was a very good morning person. It just unnerved her to think she had fallen into bed with him when she’d promised herself that was the last thing she’d ever do.
“Don’t worry about the detective,” he told her. “You won’t be seeing him anymore.”
She looked around the room, modestly holding one hand over her breasts to see if she could locate any of her clothes. “Joe didn’t make a pass at me,” she flung at him, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I didn’t say that.” Now he was studying her legs appreciatively as she charged around the room, picking up his clothes from the floor and looking under them for her underwear. “He asked to be relieved of his job.”
Where were her sweater and skirt and boots? Lacy wondered frantically. Had he done something with them to make sure she wouldn’t sneak out on him again the way she had in Tulsa?
“He was too involved with the case.” There was a warm, interested look in his gray eyes as he watched her. “He liked you too much. It’s all in his report.”
“You’re crazy!” If she could only find her London Fog she could wear that. It was good enough to catch a cab. “He was old enough to be my father, for heaven’s sake!”
“Everybody likes you too much,” he observed, sitting up in the bed. His hand snaked out and caught her knee as she passed and pulled her down beside him. “I like you too much, too,” he murmured. He put his lips to the side of her face. “I’m only protecting my interests.” His mouth reached for hers.
“Let me go,” Lacy cried, struggling. “It’s not an interest, it’s blackmail. Just because I let you make love to me once—”
“I want you,” he said, his lips devouring the silky, tender skin of her shoulders. “Damn it, Lacy, I ache for you, don’t you know that? I stayed awake all night,” he muttered against her chin, “watching you sleep. I’m aching for you now, Lacy.” His lips moved over the side of her face and the tip of her nose, seeking her mouth. “I can’t believe that I want you so damned much. It’s incredible.”
No, no, she tried to tell herself, struggling in his grasp halfheartedly. This always happened, the feeling that she was drowning in his blazing desire. The sense that she had no control over herself when he held her was frightening. Her body, with streamers of blazing delight flowing into it, was already beginning to melt. Mount Rushmore was back, but so was the president and chairman of the board of the company that owned Fad magazine, someone called Michael Echevarria.
The thought sobered her.
“Michael?” Lacy said, pushing him away to look up at him with questioning eyes.
“Yes, darling.” He was caressing the silky weight of her breasts now with his big hands, his eyes glowing. “Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything to please you.”
“I think we ought to talk,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking as he bent his head. She felt his mouth and then his tongue kissing and circling her nipples. She gave a muffled whimper as the tight buds drew and contracted under the hot, tugging pressure. “The whole thing’s a big misunderstanding.” Without consciously wanting it, her body slid under him eagerly to glory in all that sleek, marvelous strength. His hand trailed softly down her legs, fingers spread to stroke the smoothness of her belly, and she melted as first one probing touch of his fingers and then another sought the suddenly aching folds of her flesh. She could only moan.
“What do you want, darling?” he murmured, looking down at her with smoky eyes. “Tell me.”
She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Kiss me—I love it when you kiss me!” Her body was going crazy, and there was still all that zap! bam! powie! yet to go! “Please, Michael!”
But he resisted the tug of her hands. “You like the way I kiss, do you?” The Antarctic-gray glare was softened now by a warm, gleaming light. “First tell me that you want me as much as I want you. And no fooling around this time, Lacy.” His opened lips brushed hers tenderly. “Tell me you want to be here, in bed and in my arms, like this. Making love. Without giving me a hard time about it.”
Her softness flowered around his fingers’ erotic stroking. “Talk later,” she gasped. She felt a shudder course through his big body as she drew her knees up to clasp his thighs.
Quickly, his control slipping, his hard body moved over hers, positioning itself urgently between her legs. “Oh, Lacy, damn.” His hard mouth rocked against hers. “What you’re doing to me—it’s got to be—” His hands slid under her hips to lift her to him. “Take me,” he rasped. “Darling—just take me!”
It all happened at once. The fiery blaze of his kiss covered her mouth as he arched and exploded into her. There was no thought of slow, sensual lovemaking; the firestorm broke in a burst of searing, unthinking fury. They spun out of time and consciousness, driving even more wildly together. Then it was over almost too quickly, with Lacy’s shivering cry and his hoarse, ecstatic shout in her ear. It seemed a long time before they came to rest more calmly in each other’s arms.
After a while she felt his body jolt with laughter against her.
“That’s what comes of waiting too long,” he grinned, pulling her close. “All night is definitely my limit.” He lifted his head and the flash of his incredibly white teeth showed in his hard, tanned face. “I didn’t hurt you, did I, sweetheart?”
Zounds, Lacy thought, raising a wobbly hand to her streaming forehead. She’d thought the night in Tulsa had been a once-in-a-lifetime experience! She found herself staring up at him. Was it he? Was it she? Or was it both of them together? Would another time be just as fantastical? Even the electricity of his fabulous kisses had gotten lost somewhere in the volcano exploding like that!
“I thought you were terrific, Michael Echevarria,” Lacy said with some difficulty. Her mind felt numb. It wasn’t just Mount Rushmore anymore or the black panther or any of her wild imaginings. It was he, she realized sadly. The president and chairman of the board. The man she was in love with.
She raised her hand to stroke his lips, which were still damp with her kisses. She put her finger against the tip of that straight, chiseled nose and dropped it to the shallow groove in his upper lip, exploring the reality of him—his mouth, his even white teeth. Oh, why couldn’t he be different? she groaned. Why had she picked this ruthless Wall Street raider to fall in love with?
He was staring at her just as intently. “I would never want to be rough,” he whispered. “I want to cherish you, Lacy. It means a great deal to me.”
“Mmmmh,” she breathed. How could one person put so much into his eyes? They were eloquent. His eyes said things he never said. Most of the time when they talked, they argued.
“Although having you go berserk like that,” he murmured against her fingers, “has its attractions.”
Her eyes widened. “Berserk? You must be kidding Mich—”
He cut off her words with ardent lips. His tongue caressed the stiffness until her mouth gave in to him, claiming her sweetness with a slow, confident thrusting. His body pressed her down, responding with its own returning arousal. “Let’s keep it our little secret, shall we?” he said softly. “But you do go berserk, Lacy. You love making love to me, don’t you? You just can’t help yourself, right?”
There it was again, she thought. He was gorgeous and wonderful, but basically he was insufferable. He really thought she was his—his —
“I wish you had waited in Tulsa without running out on me,” he murmured into her neck. “I had something I wanted to say to you.”
“Wait,” she began, knowing what was coming. If he was going to bring up the terrible fifteen hundred dollars, he had to give her time to explain.
“I wanted to ask you,” he said, kissing her eyelids and then the tip of her nose, “if you felt good enough about ... what had happened, good enough about me, about everything, to be mine on a long-term basis.
“Lacy,” he said quickly, “I want to be with you. I’ve never felt this way in my—”
“What long-term basis?” This couldn’t be happening, Lacy was telling herself. “You’re not talking about marriage,” she said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, “are you?”
His arms tightened around her. “Will you listen a moment?” he growled. “Don’t start yelling, Lac—”
“You mean live with you? Be your mistress?” she cried incredulously. “Is that what you mean?”
“I want you with me, Lacy. That’s quite a commitment for me, but what we have between us—I’ve never—you have to realize this situation needs stabilizing,” he said firmly. “I want you in a nice setting, one that does you justice, a good address here on the East Side.
“Now wait a minute,” he said, his arms restraining her. “Just wait a damned minute, will you? You can have everything you want, a decent automobile, the right kind of wardrobe, a bank account, no limits, you just have to name it. And I want you to quit that damned job at Fad.”
“You what?” She felt as though she were going to explode even though he was holding her down.
“It’s going to take austerity measures to keep Fad magazine from going under,” he said grimly, “and that junior writer’s job will run you into the ground. I don’t want you worn out, exhausted, the way you were last night. I want you to stay just like you are—sexy, adorable, beautiful.” His hand Sifted a curl of her smoky-blond hair and twined it softly around his finger. “For me, just for me. I can’t get enough of you, Lacy.”
“You’re going to terminate me at Fad?” Lacy said disbelievingly, “so I can be your mistress full time? Is that what you said?”
“I said I wanted you to quit the job,” he told her, scowling. “I didn’t say anything about terminating you.”
“Good grief, is there a difference?” Her whole body stiffened in his arms. “Do you know what you’re saying to me, Michael?”
“I wanted to make you this offer in Tulsa,” he said, his jaw clenching, “before you ran out on me that morning. Before I ever knew you had a job on that damned magazine.”
“Make me an offer?” Lacy put her hands against him and tried to pry him away. “Are we back to that? Do you think you’re buying a business?
“Don’t answer that!” she yelled as she rammed him in the chest and sat up.
“Lacy, be calm.” He raised himself on one elbow, his large biceps bulging. “Stop it. There’s nothing to get excited about.”
“You’re disgusting, Michael Echevarria,” Lacy cried. She’d never been so crushed, so humiliated in her life. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but being a sex object in some apartment he paid for was—monumentally insulting!
She bolted from the bed and began flinging open closet doors. “Oh, I can’t cope with this! It’s too much!” She found her skirt and sweater where he’d hung them up very neatly. Her boots were on the floor of the closet. “I should have expected it, that you’d kick me out of my job, anyway. How could anyone expect you’d keep your word?” She threw her London Fog onto the bed. “You must be crazy—do you think I’d lie around all day in the buff, painting my toenails and eating chocolates and watching the soaps while I wait for you to come for me after work—”
“That’s enough,” he growled, sitting up.
“—and use my body?” Lacy was so wounded by his betrayal that she picked up the thing closest to hand, the green silk sandal she’d worn to dinner at Lutece, and flung it at him. It hit him square in the middle of his forehead, she saw, horrified. He didn’t even flinch.
“Control yourself,” he growled. He jerked up in the bed, the muscles in his chest knotted, eyes like hot, furious lazers.
“You’re a decadent, rotten rat,” Lacy yelled. “You’re the one who propositioned me, remember? Wanting me to go to bed with you for money—yeccchh!” She stepped into her lavender and gray tweed skirt and yanked it up around her waist. “I hope you’re satisfied with everything you got here this morning! You only had to pay for my dinner!”
“You haven’t got your underwear on,” he said in a steely voice.
“I’m not going to wear any,” she flared at him. “I’m a tramp, remember? You even had to put a detective on my trail, to watch me! Yah, yah, yah,” Lacy taunted, lifting her skirt and flapping it at him.
“My God!” He was out of bed in a shot. He looked around for her bikini panties and found the green silk ones lying on the floor. “Put something on under that,” he said hoarsely. “Or so help me, I’ll throttle you!”
“Don’t you touch me,” Lacy shrieked, backing away.
She squared her shoulders defiantly. “You want underwear, you’ll have to pay me for it,” she burst out. She flipped her hand over, palm up. “Pay me, Michael Echevarria—I’m speaking to you in terms you understand. Right here!” Beside herself with fury, Lacy jabbed the palm of her hand with her index finger. “Fifty bucks for the panties, seventy-five for the bra. One hundred and twenty-five smackarooties, no sales tax becau—” Her voice trailed off.
For a moment, Lacy realized, somewhat dazed, that she’d probably pushed Michael Echevarria as far as anyone ever had and still stayed in one piece.
But he surprised her. He managed to pull himself up to his naked six feet four inches and take a deep, steadying breath. “Anything you want, Lacy,” he said in a strained voice. “As soon as you put on your underwear.”
Lacy took the green silk bikini panties out of his hand warily. He watched her as she stepped into them and hiked them up under her skirt. He stared at her for a long moment before he said, “Right, I’ll get my wallet.”
From the look on his set, stony face, Lacy knew she had gone far enough. Why did things get so wildly out of hand when they were together? He made her do the craziest, most inexplicable things, and taunting Michael Echevarria was so easy, just like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Of course, Lacy told herself, it wasn’t her fault that he was absolutely rigid, exploitative and humorless.
She watched him stride across the room to pick up his tuxedo jacket from a chair. He took out his wallet and yanked out a handful of bills.
“You misunderstood the whole thing in Tulsa,” Lacy began, feeling defensive. “Will you listen to me? I was only trying to get rid of that little pest in the bar and you overheard what I said and grabbed me, and I was terrified someone would think it was all for real, and I panicked.”
He laid his jacket back in the chair. “It’s not important, Lacy,” he said grimly.
“But it is! Listen, Michael, what I said in the bar was a joke.” Lacy was beginning to feel a little less apologetic as he stood there, scowling at her. “And now you think I’m so great, you want me to be your mistress? In a fancy East Side apartment? I don’t know, Michael, I don’t think you’ll ever understand, I swear I don’t,” she fumed. “You’re so into money and power games—”
“I don’t want to hear this,” he growled. “I told you, it’s not important.”
When he started back toward her, Lacy bit her lip. She had every right to lash out at him—he had just tried to trick her out of her job on Fad magazine, and the offer to be his mistress was degrading, insulting. What she’d said he was—a decadent, rotten rat—was true. But when he came across the room to her, from the neck up Michael Echevarria was in a towering rage. The rest of him was towering, too, ready and eager, saying that if she’d just stop arguing and be reasonable —
Lacy clapped her hand over her mouth just in time.
“What the hell?” He stopped short, the money in his fist. “Are you,” he said in a hard, grating voice, “going to be funny again?”
Lacy wanted to shift her eyes, but she couldn’t. He was so wonderful, even when he tried not to be.
“You’re such a jerk,” Lacy gurgled, her shoulders beginning to heave. She couldn’t stand it when he put his hands on his hips, naked body braced, glowering at her. “Anybody else would have known right away that I wasn’t—that a fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-night h-h-hoo-hoo-hook—hahahaa!” She couldn’t help it—she collapsed o
n the edge of the bed, hilarious tears oozing helplessly. “I have to go home,” she wheezed. She didn’t even have taxi fare with her. “Oh, I can’t stand it! It—you—oh, you should see your—ah—f-face!”
He stared at her. “Damn! Are you a complete flake? I swear to God, Lacy, sometimes I think you’re—you’re emotionally unbalanced!”
Lacy whimpered, her hand clutching her stomach, as he turned on his heel and walked away. Poor Michael Echevarria. No wonder he wanted her so much! He was absolutely, grimly, totally without any sense of humor at all.
“Right,” he said with his back to her. “I’ll call down for the Rolls.”
Thirteen
On Monday, Lacy’s rewritten story on Fishman Brothers’ new dress line, which Mr. Fishman had rechristened Disco Flame Queen after its sensational debut at the now-destroyed Zebra Lounge, was given the title “Tacky-Max Triumph” and scheduled for the January issue of Fad, bumping a lead article on a major sportswear house’s new baggy jeans.
When she got over the first shock of finding her story rushed into print, Lacy couldn’t get to managing editor Gloria Farnham’s office fast enough.
It was obvious that Gloria didn’t know that Lacy’s days at Fad magazine were numbered. It was probably, Lacy told herself, just a matter of the executive order to fire her being stuck in the personnel office’s paper work again.
“Panty Pants Jeans will hate it, Stacy dear,” managing editor Gloria Farnham said, not listening to what Lacy was trying to tell her. “Panty’s one of our biggest advertisers, too—they’ll probably cancel their ads for six months and spend the money at Mademoiselle. But I can’t help it, sweetie, the Fishman story is delicious. And besides, Panty’s not going to launch Dutchman’s britches in denim for a spring line, it’s a bomb. No, babycakes, ‘Tacky-Max’ goes in, I just can’t help myself. Besides, it’s got more luscious details on the fire than the dailies carried. It’s a scoop.”
“It’s only my first article,” Lacy moaned, trying to approach the subject of being fired cautiously. “The Disco Flame Queen story is so late—it will come out almost two months after it happened. The back pages will be fine, really. I mean, none of the other junior—”
Hustle Sweet Love Page 12