Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  They were like good dancers, both intuitively meeting the other’s rhythm, anticipating the other’s movements, gliding one tempestuous step at a time to the sublime and, in their case, thunderous conclusion. Cassie screamed when she came, which might have startled Bobby if he’d not been intent on keeping his head from exploding.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, rolling off her a few moments later and sprawling on his back. His body was still strumming, his brain trying to sort the superlatives tumbling through his mind from his breathing commands. Although, one thing he knew for sure—he was going to stay for a few more of those mind-blowing orgasms.

  Cassie was floating on a pink cloud about ten feet above the ground, thinking Bobby Serre’s splendid cock was right up there with the wonders of the world. And if she played her cards right, she just might get another chance to check it out and have another of those Richter-scale orgasms.

  “That was nice,” she said on a slow exhalation, her smile candy sweet and obliging because she had plans. “Really, really nice.”

  He winked at her. “Yeah, nice.” Or maybe a hundred times better than nice.

  “You’re sweating.”

  “So are you.” He grinned. “I’m also trying to catch my breath.”

  “You’re really good, but I suppose you know that.”

  “You’re pretty damn irresistible.”

  “Am I really?” Who could blame her for asking after five years with Jay?

  “Definitely.” He blew out a breath. “In fact, I’m thinking about sending Arthur a thank you note.”

  “You’re teasing.”

  He lightly touched her tousled curls. “Not about being thankful I’m not.”

  “Does that mean—that is . . . would you mind—I suppose I shouldn’t ask again so soon, but—” she hesitated, blushing a rosy pink.

  Pushing up on his elbows, he glanced down at his rising erection. “I think we’re good to go.”

  “Am I lucky or what?” she breathed.

  “That makes two of us,” he murmured, thinking that was the most artless display of eagerness he’d ever seen. And rolling over, he kissed her gently. “Now tell me what you want and we’ll see what we can do . . .”

  And Cassie Hill, who had been without a man in her bed for a very long time, had the good fortune to find Bobby Serre, who knew better than most how to give pleasure to a woman.

  Greedy after being celibate so long, perhaps subject as well to Bobby’s world-renown allure, Cassie basked in the luxury of carnal sensation, pure and simple. As the night wore on, she would apologize from time to time for her ravenous appetite only to say short minutes later in the most enticing way, “Do you mind . . .” or “If you don’t mind . . .” or “Would you please . . .”

  He didn’t mind, of course. In fact, he kept thinking this is about as good as it gets, and he would smile and reassure her and say, “Come here and give me a kiss, Hot Legs, and tell me what you need.”

  It was always the same, her tastes simple. Another orgasm.

  But Bobby had a wild streak, so they progressed from the missionary position pretty quickly. Cassie turned out to have an inventive talent herself.

  It was one of those fly-me-to-the-moon nights.

  Unforgettable and sublime.

  ELEVEN

  THE ALARM WENT OFF, AND CASSIE CAME awake, positive she’d not set any alarm, more positive she wanted to stay right where she was—in bed. She shut her eyes again.

  “I made coffee.”

  “Ummm . . .”

  “I left Arthur a message saying we were checking some leads. But I want to interview the staff today. Ten minutes. Okay? It’s almost eleven.”

  Her eyes snapped open, and she stared at Bobby. He had different clothes on, but he looked as good as ever. Perhaps forever perfect after last night. “How long have you been up?” she murmured, trying to shake herself awake.

  “A few hours. I went home and changed. I brought back some breakfast rolls.”

  “Rolls?” She was starved. Sex did that to her.

  “They’re from Wendy’s. Your favorites, Emma said.”

  “You told her!”

  “I told her I was picking you up at home this morning and we were making a few overseas calls. That’s all. No one knows.”

  “Meaning?” Even though she didn’t want anyone at work to know she’d slept with Bobby Serre, she didn’t know how to take his comment. How much didn’t he want anyone to know? And how humiliating was that?

  “Don’t get pissed. I had a really great time last night. Starting with dinner at your sister’s and ending with our bath at four this morning. But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not broadcasting the events of last night—particularly to Arthur. I have my reasons, and you probably have yours.”

  “What are yours?” So she was irrational. Sue her.

  “Arthur’s a voyeur and a gossip. I don’t know about you, but I’d prefer not being on his breaking news.”

  “He’ll be absolutely disgusting about it, too,” Cassie muttered. “And I don’t need any more of his leering than I already have to suffer.”

  “He likes you.” Amusement underlay his words.

  “Yeah, right. Lucky me. But not enough to give me a raise.”

  “I’ll take care of that before I go.”

  He said it matter of factly—about the raise and leaving, reminding her that the real world was separate from last night’s fantasy world. “Who do we interview first?” she said, like a grown-up would. Like she understood the rules. Like rule number one was that sex was just sex. It had no relevance to your real life.

  “I thought we’d begin with the guards. They’re the obvious disconnect in security. Perhaps too-long coffee breaks or lunches contributed to the theft. Not that they’re going to admit it. We’ll have to find out.”

  “You’ve done this a hundred times before, I suppose,” she said, throwing the covers back and sliding her legs over the side of the bed.

  For a flashing moment, Bobby debated putting off the interviews for a day, her lush body revving up his libido. “Put on some clothes,” he gruffly said.

  She harrumphed, not altogether satisfied with this separation of sex and real life, not to mention being told what to do when she was thirty-two years old. “Yes, sir, anything else, sir? A shave, haircut, your pants pressed?”

  “Please, would you be kind enough to dress,” he said, his tone ultra-polite. “I’m going through withdrawal this morning, and just looking at you makes me shaky.”

  That was much better, very much more flattering and soothing to the ego. She felt all warm and fuzzy—perhaps a personality flaw, accepting flattery so readily. No doubt some would call her gullible. On second thought, perhaps she was self-serving as well, she thought, the prime example of virile manhood standing before her in clean shorts and a T-shirt exerting a kind of animal magnetism impossible to ignore. “Why don’t we both come just once,” she murmured. “In order to quench the shakiness.”

  He grinned. “Is once possible for you?”

  “Don’t blame me for your flawless sense of place.”

  He laughed. “Get dressed, and we’ll quit early instead.”

  “How early?”

  “Early enough for you to come a dozen times before dinner.”

  “You say the nicest things.” Thank you God—the fantasy world was just on hold.

  “I know. Now get ready. I’ll pour your coffee.” And he escaped from the bedroom before he totally lost control.

  “You didn’t eat any,” she said as she came into the kitchen and glanced at the full box of little frosted rolls on the counter.

  “I stopped for steak and eggs.” He supposed if he tore off her skirt and blouse and wrapped her long bare legs—a fact he immediately noticed as in easy access noticed—in those strappy green shoes around him he’d more or less shoot the day in terms of getting any work done. Which was sure to generate repercussions from Arthur. Should he ask her to wear slacks and a big jacket? Ho
w weird would that sound?

  “Try one,” she said, tearing off a gooey roll. “They’re really good.”

  Watching her catch the dripping icing with her tongue brought back graphic memories of last night, and backing up a step, he tried to distance himself from temptation. “I don’t know if this is going to work,” he said on a low exhalation.

  “What?”

  She was lounging against the counter, about to take a bite of pastry, her mouth half-open. The irresponsible part of his brain thought, Lift her up on the counter and spread her legs. Or better yet, just have her bend over. He swallowed hard, decided he couldn’t be around her if he intended to get any work done, and spoke quickly before he lost his concentration. “We’ll get more done if I do the interviews and you take over the phone calls to my contacts.”

  “My French is rusty,” she said through a mouthful of sweet roll. “My German will only get me a cab, and my Spanish only works at Taco Bell.”

  “I’ll give you the list for the States—the East and West Coasts mostly, Miami in particular. A fair amount of art is passing through there.” His brain was switching over to work mode at the thought of Jorge in Miami. Thank God.

  “Tell me what to say. I’m new at detective work.”

  “It’s easy enough. You’re calling for me . . . I’ll give you some reference phrases that will vet you. See what they know about the Rubens. Then I’ll pick you up at your office, say, about four.”

  “Or I could meet you around the corner if that doesn’t sound too juvenile. I’d prefer putting Arthur off the scent.”

  “Fine. We’ll meet somewhere.”

  “Do I have time for another roll?”

  He smiled. “It might test my self-control.”

  “Am I sexy?” She was allowed; divorce could shake even the most overweening ego.

  “Do fish swim?”

  How sweet. Self-validation. “Do we really have to wait until this afternoon—I mean how long would it take if we—?”

  “In the mood I’m in,” he brusquely said, “decades. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  She watched him stride away, female power welling up inside her in a tidal wave, happy as a clam to have found her groove again, sure of one thing at least in terms of sexual allure. She had it, he wanted it, and, with luck, it might take a month to find the Rubens. Thirty days, thirty nights, six hundred plus orgasms for her even if he decided to sleep at night.

  Maybe Willie had been right.

  Maybe “If you want him, take him” would become her new mantra.

  Maybe she’d enjoy Bobby Serre’s sexual expertise to the max.

  Because life was short, the meek did not inherit the earth, and perhaps those who hesitated really did lose.

  But more important, last night had made her a serious sexual addict.

  Luckily, she knew where to get her fix.

  TWELVE

  THEY WERE BOTH TRYING VERY HARD TO ACT mature in the car, keeping their distance, their conversation exclusively on the art theft. Cassie gave herself high marks for self-control. She only looked at his crotch twice.

  Bobby mostly looked forward or out the window. His self-control was almost nonexistent.

  But they made it to the museum without embarrassing themselves in front of Joe and quickly went their separate ways before they could change their minds.

  * * *

  CASSIE HAD NO more than settled behind her desk than Arthur appeared, looking smug.

  “You look perky,” he said, standing in her doorway.

  “If I looked perky, I’d kill myself, Arthur. Do you actually want something?” She was feeling smug herself, what with her raise practically ensured, what with her own personal lobbyist working for her.

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed like they did whenever a subordinate didn’t lapse into full sycophantic mode. “You’re late.”

  “Mr. Serre and I made some overseas calls this morning,” she lied.

  “I’m doing you a favor on these consultant fees, Cassandra. I expect a modicum of gratitude,” he huffily said, his nostrils flaring. “And respect for our office hours.”

  “I’m grateful, of course.” Trying to gauge the degree of servility required against her newfound female power, she settled on a half smile and a neutral comment. “I worked late last night on this assignment.”

  It was a mistake to mention last night; she knew it the moment the words left her mouth.

  His smug look returned, Arthur moved into her office and sat down on her Mies chair in front of her desk. “Tell me about last night.”

  Inwardly groaning, Cassie slid the paper on which she’d written Bobby Serre’s name entwined with hearts a dozen times—really it was just her impulsive, newly awakened hormones guiding her pen—under the folder of contact names while racking her brain for an appropriate reply. What had Bobby told him? Had Arthur even talked to him this morning? Jesus, she felt like a teenager lying to her parents about having sex when she didn’t know the cover story. “We went to my sister’s for dinner and reviewed the names from the temp list afterward.”

  “We? Afterward?”

  If Arthur had a mustache to twirl, he’d be right in character, his leer almost comical. “Mr. Serre and I. Afterward at my sister’s house—in her den . . . where the children aren’t allowed.” She was beginning to warm up to her story.

  “And?”

  Jesus, Arthur looked like an expectant voyeur. “I filled him in on everyone on the temp list who might remotely figure as a suspect. Mr. Serre is very businesslike. He said he was hoping to find the painting quickly and return to wherever he was . . . Europe somewhere,” she added with what she thought was a fine display of casual acting.

  “Budapest,” he said. “Hmpf,” he added, looking disappointed. “Bobby said as much.”

  Soul mates—now she knew what the phrase meant. There was no other explanation for their identical lies. Not to mention their incredible, really outstanding rapport in bed, which wasn’t always bed, of course, but she didn’t want to think about that now with pervert Arthur watching her like a hawk, waiting for her to slip up. “I have a long list of calls to make,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint, making the mistake of lifting up the folder before recalling what lay beneath.

  “What’s that?” Arthur snapped, seizing the sheet of paper inscribed with her undeniable folly. “My, my,” he murmured, perusing her infatuated scribbles, a nasty smile forming on his face. “What do we have here?”

  “He looks like a movie star. Okay?” She shrugged. “It’s just some silly nonsense. He can’t even remember my name. He calls me Miranda.” Please, God, let him believe her.

  “I could put in a good word for you,” Arthur said with a reptilian smile.

  “I’d rather you didn’t. I’m not interested in any more rejection.”

  “Women take divorce more seriously than men,” he said with his inimitable and selfishly male view of the world. “Are you still missing Jay?”

  She would have liked to take issue with his platitude but decided this was one of those times when silence was golden. As for his question about Jay, unless missing meant doing bodily harm, she wouldn’t be able to answer that one, either, without lying through her teeth. “It can be sad,” she said, deciding on an all-purpose, one-size-fits-all generic response. Should she try to squeeze out a tear in hopes of distracting him?

  As she was attempting to generate some eye moisture, the sound of approaching footsteps broke the silence, and a moment later, the very last person she wished to see stood in the doorway of her office looking like the exact tall, dark, and handsome movie star she’d previously alluded to.

  “Come in, come in,” Arthur boomed as though he were a shill for a carnival show.

  It was really terrifying to see the shining expectation on Arthur’s face. Was he one of those viewers who watched reality TV to see who had to eat cockroaches or who would be axed from the program because they were hated the most? Were his serial marriages an indi
cation of a constant need for perverse stimulation? Did his custom-made suits hide the soul of a little old lady who thrived on gossip and personal disasters?

  Casting a quick, imploring look at Bobby as Arthur waved him in, she was answered with a fleeting lift of dark brows.

  Obviously a query she was currently unable to answer.

  “Come in, sit down. Cassandra and I were discussing the case,” Arthur said. “Among other things,” he added with a waggish chuckle. “It appears you have an admirer.” He handed Bobby the sheet of paper.

  “I told Arthur it was just some silliness,” Cassie quickly interposed. “I’m embarrassed, naturally.” Which was God’s own truth. “We scarcely know each other.” A patent lie in contrast.

  Bobby glanced at the paper, then set it on Cassie’s desk. “You have too much time on your hands, Arthur. Don’t you have some donors to shake down?”

  Arthur smiled. “I thought it was charming.”

  “Good for you.” He turned to Cassie. “I’ve brought some additional phone numbers for you to call.” Leaning on her desk, he jotted a few lines on the tablet he carried, tore off the top sheet, and handed it to her. “There’s a couple code words by each name. Make sure you use them. If you’ll excuse me, Arthur, unlike you, I have work to do.” Turning away, he walked from the room.

  But he half turned at the door and winked at her.

  She tried not to blush.

  She desperately tried.

  Without luck.

  “He took it well, I thought,” Arthur casually said, too wrapped up in his own twisted delusions to notice Cassie’s pink cheeks.

  “Thanks for embarrassing me. Especially when I have to work with Mr. Serre. You shouldn’t have shown that to him.”

  Arthur’s smile was bland. “Bobby’s familiar with women throwing themselves at him. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. In fact, he has a lady waiting for him in Budapest. I’m sure that’s why he’s in a hurry to get back,” he briskly added, coming to his feet. “Keep me updated on the case. You should have taken my advice and had your hair cut. Bobby might have given you a second look.”