by Lori Wilde
“It doesn’t when you’re around Hunter,” Madison said, mentioning Izzy’s next-door neighbor.
“Oh, it does.” Izzy nodded. “Believe me, when I see that man working out at the gym, whew.” She licked her lips.
“So why not go for it? Hunter is a great guy.”
“Because we’ve been friends for so long, I can’t risk spoiling it. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend.” She sighed. “It’s always been that way with us. When I have a boyfriend, he’s free and when I’m free, he’s got a girlfriend. I think it’s the universe’s way of telling us we’re better off friends.”
“That’s a shame.”
“If that thing—” she pointed at the lingerie Emma was now investigating “—could help me get control of my impulses, I’d happily shell out two hundred for it.”
“You mean if you had someone to monitor you while you’re wearing it, like, maybe one of us.” Bianca toggled a finger from Emma to Madison to herself, “and when we detected that your vital signs were going up, we’d just give you a call and tell you to cool it.”
“Yes, and even if I turned it off you could call and talk some sense into me. You know,” Izzy said, “sort of like an intervention.”
“Isn’t that a bit intimate?” Madison asked.
“Hey, as highly sexed as I am, I need all the help I can get,” Izzy exclaimed.
“So you really would use it as a chastity belt, and not a sex toy?” Bianca questioned.
“Well, you know me…” Izzy shrugged.
“The world is your sex toy,” Emma finished for her.
“After the disastrous romances we all had last summer,” Bianca mused, “Izzy’s idea doesn’t sound so farfetched.”
The previous year Bianca thought she’d found the perfect guy. Richard had been everything she believed she wanted in a man, an eager, competitive, responsible, goal-oriented overachiever just like her. They’d hit it off during a game of water volleyball at an all-inclusive resort in Jamaica. Bianca had been there on a corporate retreat. Richard had claimed he was scouting out investment opportunities. He seduced her with banana daiquiris and long, wet, hot kisses.
One thing led to another and Bianca ended up spilling more than just a little pillow talk. She’d wakened with one helluva hangover and discovered too late that Richard had actually been working for a competing ad agency. He’d stolen her ideas and presented them as his own to the clients she’d been courting. This was the Big Mistake she’d been cautioned against repeating.
The memory still stung. She’d received a strict reprimand from her boss and it had taken her the better part of the year to crawl out of the doghouse. She hadn’t dated since. The truth was she no longer trusted herself around the opposite sex. She’d allowed her hormones to rule her head, something she sorely regretted and had never done before or since. This new client was her opportunity to make amends and fast track her career.
“As if this underwear could stop Izzy from doing whatever she had it in her mind to do,” Madison said.
“I can just imagine how that conversation would go,” Emma threw in. “We call Izzy at one in the morning, ordering her to put her panties back on and go home. She’s just going to tell us exactly where we can stick those panties.”
“Hey!” Izzy grumbled.
Bianca smiled at her. “You know it’s true, Izz. We love you, but you’ve got a mind of your own and you’ve never let anyone stop you from using it.”
“You are a passionate woman.” Emma nodded.
“Celibacy just isn’t in your nature,” Madison added.
“So that’s how it is. And you call yourselves my friends.” Izzy folded her arms over her chest and looked affronted, but they knew she was teasing. Not much fazed Izzy.
“Only your true friends will give it to you straight.”
Bianca took the lingerie from Emma, folded it up and nestled it back inside the box.
Izzy sank her hands on her hips. “So you’re saying I can’t go without sex, but the three of you can?”
“Pretty much.” Bianca grinned and tucked the box underneath her chair.
“Yes,” Madison remarked bluntly.
“Um…well…” Emma hedged.
“I dare you to put your money where your mouth is,” Izzy challenged.
“What do you mean?” Bianca settled her hands in her lap.
“I’m proposing a bet.”
“What kind of bet?” Emma asked.
Izzy notched her chin in the air. “I bet I can go without sex longer than any of you can.”
Bianca tried not to smile, but lost the battle.
Madison snickered.
“You’re serious?” Emma laughed.
“As a heart attack. Five hundred dollars apiece, no sex of any kind for an entire month. Winner take all,” Izzy dared.
“By ‘no sex of any kind’—” Bianca started to ask.
“No oral sex, no hand jobs, and no self pleasuring,” Izzy laid down the ground rules.
“Hard core.” Madison made a face.
“Yes, well, I’m tired of being the laughingstock.”
“We weren’t laughing at you,” Bianca tried to smooth things over.
“But you find the idea of me winning a celibacy contest hilarious.”
“In our defense,” Emma countered, “you do have a lot of sex, Izzy.”
“Maybe this talk about chastity has made me realize I require some perspective about men and relationships. If celibacy can give me a clear head, then I’m willing to give it a shot.”
“Did something else happen?” Bianca asked. “Do you want to spill?”
Izzy made a face. “Never mind about that.”
“You don’t need to be ashamed of your sexuality,” Emma said.
“I’m not ashamed, I’m just thinking maybe I should step back and reevaluate things. So who’s in?”
Madison raised a hand. “This one is in the bag and I could use the money. I’m going to be in Costa Rica for the entire month with a bunch of botanists searching the jungle for rare orchids. No chance for romance there.”
“Hey, count me in,” Emma said. “After Ryan, swearing off men for a month sounds just fine with me.”
“B?” Izzy shot a glance at Bianca.
“I’m Miss Workaholic. When would I have time for romance?” Bianca asked.
“I don’t know,” Izzy said in a sing-songy voice. “Thomaz Santos did design that Catch Me if You Can underwear. He sounds muito macho to me.”
“Phhttt, he’s a client, no way am I falling for him.” Bianca waved a hand.
“So you’re in?” Izzy’s grin sharpened.
“I’m in.”
“And you’re not the least bit worried about Senhor Santos?”
“Why should I worry? You’ll be out in twenty-four hours,” Bianca predicted.
Izzy rubbed her palms together. “We shall see.”
“So how’s it going to work?” Madison asked. “How are we going to keep this thing honest?”
“Can you get your hands on three more of those things?” Izzy asked Bianca.
Bianca nodded. “That can be arranged.”
“Okay, so we wear the lingerie all the time. If we have to take it off for bathing and laundry and swimming and things like that, we simply send out a text letting each other know what’s going on. We set up a rotating schedule to monitor each other. We’ll have everybody’s access codes, so we’re alerted when things are heating up. If we turn off the belt without prior approval, we’re automatically disqualified.”
“That’s reasonable,” Bianca said.
“Let’s make a pact.” Izzy laid her palm in the middle of the table.
Emma stacked her hand over Izzy’s and Madison put her hand on Emma’s and Bianca topped the pile.
“All month, no sex, may the strongest woman win.”
NIGHT WHISPERS
1
All work and no play makes Bianca a dull girl…or does it?
“FROM A marke
ting standpoint,” Bianca began, shifting uncomfortably on the plush chaise lounge.
Whenever she moved she felt the silky material of the Catch Me if You Can lingerie glide across her skin like warm water. The sensation was wholly erotic and quite frankly, unsettling. Over the ephemeral garment, she wore a gray, knee-length pencil skirt and a buttoned-up white cotton blouse with sensible gray pumps and pearls. Her hair was swept up in a sleek French twist, giving her what she hoped was an air of up-and-coming young executive on the go. “You have to decide if you’re selling celibacy or sex.”
She still couldn’t believe she was here. Bianca St. James—the woman who in high school was voted most likely to end up CEO of her own company, the woman who had written a mission statement for her life when she was a college freshman, the woman who’d spent the ensuing nine years throwing herself full tilt into her career—was sitting poolside with a near-naked man, a potent umbrella drink getting sweaty in her hand, at two o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon in Rio de Janeiro.
It was a scenario for disaster and, after the previous summer, Bianca had learned her lesson. No summer fun in the sun while she was working—although technically it was winter in Brazil.
They were on the penthouse rooftop of a downtown Rio office building that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. The place was straight out of Condé Nast Traveler. Sleek and ultramodern in design, the stark-white open-air interiors possessed clean, smooth lines, while at the same time overtly whispering money, money, money. The roof was no different. Behind them stood a blue-and-white-striped cabana. A bowl of exotic fruits lay on the table between them. The ocean breeze caressed her skin and scattered the scent of the city over them—coffee beans and coconut oil and sea foam and sugar cane.
The pool was a long rectangle, the turquoise water coolly inviting on the warm June day. White chaise longues with cushions to match the water were strategically positioned on the exotic white stone of the pool area. Numerous large potted palms in decorative clay pots added a bit of greenery. A beautiful, dark-haired woman in a pink string bikini manned the mahogany bar a few feet away. The white marble wall behind her was mirrored, reflecting back at them the gleaming array of liquors in their colorful bottles—golden whiskey, pink vodka, blue curaçao, deep-brown rum.
The swarthy man beside Bianca wore nothing more than a pair of darkly tinted sunglasses and swim trunks in a stunning color of azure that matched the peaceful sky overhead and accentuated his darkly tanned skin.
Although she’d met Senhor Santos several times before, it had always been in the buttoned-up offices of Stillman, Burke and Hollister, and Thomaz had been dressed in sleek Italian tailor-made suits that perfectly fitted his large muscular frame.
And she’d never been alone with him.
All traces of the civilized executive she thought she knew had disappeared, leaving nothing but pure, primal man. Here was the earthy playboy she’d heard so much about.
She’d never seen a face quite like this one. His angular cheekbones carved in sharp lines, he was dangerously handsome without a hint of softness. His hair was darker than an underground cavern and his body…oh, damn his body…she’d been avoiding looking at it ever since she’d taken the seat next to him. Trepidation bit at her with sharp teeth.
“In essence, Mr. Santos, you can’t row your boat in two directions at once,” Bianca went on, wondering if his eyes were open or closed on the other side of those expensive designer sunglasses.
She’d been here for a good five minutes and he hadn’t once budged from his lounging position, or given so much as a hint that he was even aware she was sitting beside him. But she refused to let it show that he unnerved her.
“I cannot speak of business while you are so uncomfortable,” Thomaz Santos said.
“I’m not uncomfortable,” Bianca denied.
She crossed her legs and pressed her knees together tightly. The provocative lingerie moved with her, rubbing gently against her bottom. She’d never in her life been so aware of an undergarment and it threw her off-kilter. What was the thing made of? It felt sensual, luxurious. Better question, why had she agreed to Izzy’s silly bet in the first place? “Please, bonita, you are fooling no one but yourself. There is perspiration on your upper lip and you sit as if you have a steel rod thrust up your spine. Relax. Go pick out a swimsuit for yourself.” He waved at the rack of skimpy swimsuits parked nearby. She assumed it was inventory from his business. “Cool off in the pool.” Bonita.
He’d just called her beautiful. It both pleased her and irritated her. “Mr. Santos,” she said waspishly, “let’s get something straight right up front.”
He smiled wryly. “And what is that?”
“In my country calling me beautiful at a business meeting could be construed as sexual harassment.” Not that this encounter was remotely like a business meeting. Dammit, she wished he’d take off those sunglasses so she could read what was going on in his eyes.
His smile deepened. “Ah, but thankfully we are not in your country. We are in Brazil and thus I am free to tell a beautiful woman that she is beautiful without threat of legal action.”
“Please don’t do that. I find it unsettling.”
“Then you are an oddity.” He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe such a thing existed. “A woman who does not like to hear she is beautiful.”
That made her feel all tingly. She should not be feeling tingly. She did not like feeling tingly. “Business is business, attractiveness should not enter into it.”
Then he laughed as if she was the most amusing thing he’d encountered all week. “Attractiveness always enters into it.”
For the first time since she’d entered his hedonistic domain, Thomaz sat up, swinging his tanned, muscular, polo-playing legs over the side of the chaise. She dropped her gaze, noticed how he sat casually, his austerely beautiful arms draped on his thighs, his big hands resting between his open knees.
He raised his designer sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing lustrous ebony eyes fringed with dark, heavy lashes. He cast a long, lingering glance over her body.
Bianca swallowed and nervously touched the tip of her tongue to the apex of her upper lip.
Do not look at his chest.
But her eyes had minds of their own and slowly took in from his face to his finely muscled chest and granite-solid stomach. Except for the slight fabric of his swim trunks, Thomaz was practically nude. She could almost feel the velvet of his flesh, the warmth and steel beneath. Could almost taste the tangy salt of his skin. Vitality vibrated off him, projecting like heat rays off the sun.
Her entire body broke out in a sweat and she was inflamed. It’s just the sun, she told herself, but she knew that was a bald-faced lie.
From the bar came the sound of samba music, a steady, seductive beat. Someone had switched on the satellite radio. Bianca’s hips itched to sway in time to the drumming, but she primly resisted the urge.
“I am going for a swim,” he said. “You’ll have to join me if you want to continue discussing business. You can select a swimsuit and change in the cabana.”
Thomaz levered himself off the chaise and with the elegant stroll of a man accustomed to getting what he wanted, he sauntered down the steps of the pool.
He dove into the pool, swam for a minute, and then surfaced, treading water. His dark hair was plastered against his skull. “Come in, the water is fine.”
Bianca hesitated, perched on the edge of her chaise. She didn’t want to go swimming with him, but it appeared to be the only option if she was hoping to get any business done today. Reluctantly, she went over to the rack of colorful swimsuits and browsed through them. Ninety percent were far too skimpy—string bikinis and thongs and even pubikinis, heaven forbid. She hadn’t waxed extensively enough for any of these contenders and besides, she’d never been a two-piece kind of gal. Didn’t anyone in Brazil wear a one-piece? Okay, here was a slingshot, but that was still a bikini.
After much digging, she finally found a key
hole one-piece in vivid scarlet and brash orange. Not something she would have chosen. Bianca only swam for exercise and preferred a sensible maillot in a dark color, but this suit was the best she could do under the circumstances.
With her purse slung over her shoulder and the flimsy material in her hand, she stepped into the cabana to change, but just as she unzipped her skirt, she realized she was going to have to do something about the chastity belt. Fishing her phone from her purse, she simultaneously shimmied out of her skirt. She texted her friends with her thumb while she kicked off her pumps.
Going swimming. Expect to be turned off for thirty minutes. Cheers, B.
That ought to give her enough time to get this over with and get back into her clothes.
She finished undressing and put on the swimsuit. The keyhole was cut out right at her navel. Good thing she did her sit-ups regularly. Otherwise this thing would definitely not be happening.
“Here goes nothing,” she muttered and wrapped a fluffy white beach towel around her waist.
Bianca stepped outside the cabana and noticed someone—most probably the bartender—had moved their drinks poolside. She walked to the water’s edge and dropped the towel on the cement beside the steps just before she got in.
“Ah.” Thomaz gave her a knowing glance. “The keyhole. I am not surprised.”
Irritation nudged her again. “What does that mean?”
“It’s the most modest suit in that particular collection,” he said.
“What is it? The Flaming Harlot collection?”
Thomaz laughed and moved closer. She was standing in five feet of water and found herself retreating up to the edge.
Bianca cleared her throat. Ridiculous, letting him get her on the run. She was taking command of the situation. “So, back to your ad campaign. You have to make a decision. Choose celibacy and market the garment as a modern-day chastity belt to men, or choose sex and market it to women as a bedroom toy.”
His gaze flicked down the length of her legs, the smile on his lips smug. “We cannot do both?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. You need a focus.”