Hot Legs

by Susan Johnson

  “I hope Cassandra won’t be a problem for you. Say the word, and I’ll cut her loose.”

  “It’s not a problem. She’s useful for some of the legwork. And she needs the money, you said. I wouldn’t want to be a prick.”

  “It’s your call. If you don’t want her, just say the word.”

  “I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  “Just a reminder,” Arthur said, escorting him to the door. “The flower show starts tomorrow. The museum will be mobbed, in case it matters.”

  “It shouldn’t matter. I’m going to check on some of the temps . . . and your exes, if you don’t mind—or even if you do. It’s routine.”

  “Be my guest, but you’re wasting your time. Paige and Sarah wouldn’t have a clue how to pull off a heist. Nor the desire.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but I’ll check them off my list.”

  “Make sure you tell them I’m not harassing them, or my lawyer will get a call.”

  “I’ll be polite as hell. I’ll bring Miss Hill with me so the call appears completely benign. They must know her.”

  “They’ve met her once or twice, I’m sure. Emma has Paige and Sarah’s addresses,” his gaze narrowed, “for which homes I’m paying handsomely.”

  “I’m sure they’re appreciative,” Bobby politely noted. No way was he going to sympathize with Arthur’s inclination to serial marriages and divorces. The man was old enough to know better. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Two minutes later, Bobby was loping down the sidewalk, the yellow cab shining like a vision of nirvana at the end of the block—the distraction he needed only seconds away.

  Quashing the unwanted memories Arthur’s questions about his late marriage had dredged up, he thought instead of the lush woman waiting for him and the sure-to-be-gratifying night ahead.

  * * *

  AS BOBBY SLID into the backseat of the cab, Arthur was running through his speed dial directory. D, D, D, Dumont. He punched talk.

  “I’ll bet you have no idea who’s in town,” he said a moment later.

  “What happened to ‘Hello, how are you,’ Arthur?” Claire Dumont murmured, having a very good idea why he called. She knew Arthur’s penchant for meddling. She also knew who he’d call when his Rubens was stolen.

  “Take a guess.”

  “The president.”

  “Of what?” Arthur was on a first-name basis with numerous presidents of universities and foundations.

  “Our country, Arthur. I hear he was in Minneapolis recently.”

  “No. Guess again.”

  “Bobby Serre,” she said, because Arthur would go on forever and she was already late for a cocktail party.

  “How did you know?” he exclaimed.

  “Anyone with half a brain would call Bobby to find their stolen artwork. Now I have a question for you. Why are you calling to tell me this?”

  “I just thought you’d like to know.”

  “And?”

  “Bobby doesn’t like to talk about your divorce. I thought you’d like to know that, too. I tried to get him to talk. He wouldn’t.”

  “He doesn’t like to talk about anything, Arthur. I blame his Montana upbringing where men are men and women take second place to horses.”

  “Do I detect a note of bitterness?”

  “Of course, you idiot. Who wouldn’t want to be married to Bobby Serre?”

  “He gave me the impression the divorce was mutual.”

  “That’s interesting. I was the one who came back to New York from London to find him gone. Not gone on an investigation, but gone gone.” She hadn’t thought he’d meant it in London, but he had.

  “Who filed for divorce?”

  “Really, Arthur, does it matter?” She wasn’t about to say she did on the advice of her lawyer and numerous friends who understood the monetary specifics of divorce. Nor was she about to tell Arthur that Bobby had begun to suspect her friendship with a museum trustee might have been more than platonic. She would never admit it, of course. What was a few times at the Carlyle? Certainly not memorable.

  “You could come to visit. Who knows? Maybe Bobby’s changed his mind.”

  “Then he can get in touch with me.”

  “Give Sarah a call. She’d be delighted to see you.”

  “Such persistence, Arthur. What’s in it for you?”

  “Can’t I be concerned for a friend?”

  There was no point in saying something rude. “Why don’t I think about it,” Claire politely said instead. “I really have to go now. A car is waiting for me downstairs. I’m expected at the Hammersmiths’ for cocktails tonight. You remember them.”

  “Of course. Say hello to Richard for me. And think about what I said. You never know.”

  “Ciao, Arthur. Good luck with the recovery of the Rubens.” And she hung up before he said something more about fixing her up with Bobby Serre. Really, Arthur was such an insatiable busybody. She always pictured him dressed in heliotrope satin exchanging tittle tattle in Prinny’s inner circle during the Regency. He would have fit in perfectly.

  But Arthur’s words kept replaying in her mind on the ride to the Hammersmiths’—the thought that Bobby might be harboring some feelings for her intriguing. After several cocktails and a glaring dearth of eligible men at the Hammersmiths’, she was feeling even more intrigued. What did she have to lose? Didn’t she have a free voucher that allowed her to fly anytime? Wasn’t she at loose ends with most everyone in her department at the Dusseldorf conference? Couldn’t she take off a day or so and visit Sarah and her goddaughter Flora?

  Of course she could.

  EIGHTEEN

  A SECOND NIGHT OF NONSTOP SEX WAS beginning to take its toll on Cassie’s and Bobby’s energy levels, and they slept in Friday morning.

  The phone rang at seven.

  “Don’t answer it,” Bobby muttered.

  “I have to.”

  He opened one eye. “No, you don’t,” he said and pulled her close.

  Her voicemail kicked in, and they both drifted back to sleep.

  The second and third time her phone rang neither even heard it, as though their brains had been given justifiable reason to overlook the sound.

  When they finally came awake, it was ten o’clock on one of those glorious spring mornings of sunshine, singing birds, and balmy temperatures.

  “You know what we have to do first?” Bobby murmured, kissing her cheeks and eyes and nose and lips, tasting her with a smile. “Grocery shop.”

  “Second,” she whispered, relatively sure she’d become a nymphomaniac in the space of three short days, but unconcerned about therapy until she had another orgasm. “If you don’t mind.”

  “If you don’t mind if we make this a short work day because Fridays are my favorite fuck-off days.”

  “I love Fridays, too. We could sit outside in the sun this afternoon and drink champagne.”

  “Or we could sit inside and look at the sun through the windows and drink champagne. Then the neighbors wouldn’t notice your lack of clothes.”

  “You better stop right there, or Arthur won’t get a lick of work out of me today.”

  “We’ll pace ourselves. A little work, a little fun. A little fun, a little fun.”

  She grinned. “Because it’s Friday.”

  “You betcha. So tell me what you want, Miss Hill, because I’m on the clock this morning, and you won’t be able to have your way with me past eleven. You and I have an interview about one, and I want some groceries in your empty refrigerator.”

  “I do so hate to rush my way through sex.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  He laughed. “Not likely. Come here, babe. Earn your consultant fees.”

  She would have decked anyone else for such a chauvinist remark, but she was more than ready to earn her fees or whatever else he wanted to call it. She hadn’t felt so good since—let’s face it—since forever. “What do I hav
e to do to earn my consultant fees?” she purred, teasing him in flirtatious play, her libido kicking in as though a few hours of sleep had been more than enough to restoke the fires. “I’ve never been a consultant before . . .”

  Understanding a little game had begun, he smoothly said, “It’s easy. You just have to do what I tell you.” He came up into a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “I’ve heard you can be demanding.” He hadn’t missed a beat, but then he never did. Play or not, games or real, he was smooth.

  “You heard wrong,” he said with a faint smile. “Come, tell me why you want the position.”

  “I need the money.” Sitting cross-legged beside him, she piled her tousled hair atop her head in a blatantly seductive gesture. “Arthur doesn’t pay me enough.”

  “Why don’t we remedy that,” he softly said, contemplating the rise of her luscious breasts, his dick taking note as well.

  “How nice of you,” she said in a breathy, little-girl voice employed by movie sex kittens to get what they wanted. And what she wanted was in clear view and getting larger by the second. She dropped her hands and met his gaze. “I really appreciate your help.”

  As her hair tumbled onto her shoulders and her heavy breasts settled into place with a tantalizing quiver, it took him a moment to refocus his thoughts because she was asking. Not that he wasn’t interested, but speed didn’t have the same appeal to him as it did to her. And he liked her game. “Did Arthur tell you I’m researching Romano’s erotica? I hope that’s not a problem.”

  She looked startled for a moment, and he gave her high points for improvisation. “Are you embarrassed?”

  “No, sir—well . . . perhaps a little.”

  “You’re blushing.” Her feigned innocence was hotter than hot.

  “I’ve seen his work, of course, but I don’t usually discuss it with—”

  “A stranger?”

  She looked down and nodded.

  My God, his libido was loving this—her false virtue a real turn-on. “I doubt we’ll be strangers long.”

  Her lashes fluttered upward, and she smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “Good. Now, tell me what you think of Romano’s sketchbook. We’ll begin with that.”

  “I find it intriguing,” she said sweetly, her gaze flickering downward from time to time as though she didn’t know where to look. “He portrays so many curious positions.”

  “Sexual positions, you mean.”

  “Yes,” she whispered, twisting her fingers together as though talking about sex was disconcerting.

  But he knew better. Her nipples were taut and hard, the flush of arousal pinking her skin. “Which is your favorite?”

  “I liked—” she looked down again, her hair tumbling over her forehead “—several of them.”

  Her voice was almost inaudible, her blushing pose so damnably arousing he was tempted to fuck her right now. But then he’d miss the rest of the game.

  “Show me your favorite one.”

  “I couldn’t.” Her gaze didn’t quite meet his. “Really.”

  “There’s no one here. Don’t be bashful.”

  She looked at him then down again. “I shouldn’t . . .”

  “Do you find the centaurs intriguing? Look at me. Do you?”

  Her gaze came up slowly as though she was complying reluctantly. “I don’t know—I mean—yes . . . in some ways I do.”

  “You like to look at their huge cocks and balls?”

  “Sometimes, yes. They’re—the women seem frightened.”

  “Are you frightened by a huge cock?”

  “I’m not sure—” her gaze briefly rested on his rampant erection “—perhaps not entirely.”

  Or not at all, he thought. “Have you ever thought about a centaur or a faun forcing you to have sex?”

  She didn’t immediately answer. “Yes,” she finally said, her voice the merest whisper.

  “And the men in the Romano sketchbook. Did you like them?”

  “They were very attractive.”

  “Because they had massive erections?”

  “I couldn’t say . . . I mean—perhaps in some ways I found that agreeable.”

  “Then you’ll enjoy our project. We’ll be analyzing Romano’s oeuvre and comparing it to Picasso’s later sketches.”

  “I prefer Romano’s.”

  “Because they’re highly representational. Is that what appeals to you?”

  “I’m not sure. Yes, actually, it is,” she admitted.

  “So you like to look at big cocks. Do they arouse you?”

  “Very much.” She glanced at his erection again.

  “Show me a female pose from Romano.” His voice took on a new brusqueness.

  “Would this be considered part of my job duties?”

  “Initially. There would be others later.”

  “Such as?”

  “Why don’t we see how you do on this first.”

  She was so ready for sex little rivulets of pearly fluid were trickling down her thighs, her vagina was flexing in tiny pulsating spasms, her senses riding high on the sex-spree bandwagon.

  “I’m waiting.” His voice was gruff.

  “If you insist,” she said with constraint as though she were compelled, when during the night past she had been more likely to make unbridled demands than he. “Do you remember this pose?” Sliding her hands forward on the bed, she came up on her hands and knees and glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Although the sketch had two men and one woman.”

  “Would you like me to find someone else?” His voice had dropped half an octave.

  Causing her slight, but genuine alarm. “No, no—please . . . I meant it only in—”

  “Play? Does thinking about two men and one woman make you wetter?” But he didn’t wait for an answer because he had other things on his mind. He was already positioning himself behind her, the heated intonation of his words drifting over her back, the head of his penis nudging her cleft. “See if this is big enough,” he murmured, beginning to enter her, his hands on her waist holding her immobile. He drove in deeper. “Let me know . . .”

  She screamed in ecstasy as he plunged forward, as his enormous cock stretched her and filled her, every vaginal cell shuddering in rapture, her addicted senses overstimulated but already shamelessly racing for climax. Because—there . . . now . . . he was fully submerged. She could feel the peaking rapture scorch through her senses. It was astonishing how easily she could reach orgasm with him. She could practically come in seconds. Like . . . sort of . . . right—

  “Wait,” he said, glancing in the mirror. “Look.”

  She didn’t hear him or ignored him, thrusting backward, grinding against his erection, wanting what she wanted, reaching for her addictive fix.

  He smiled.

  Because she was coming now and he wasn’t.

  Which meant next time she could look.

  * * *

  AS IT TURNED out, Bobby was off the clock later than eleven, which meant the business of the day was forced into a tightly compressed time frame.

  A slightly harder adjustment for Cassie when she was in her addicted-to-love phase. But Bobby coaxed and sweet-talked and made promises that brought a smile to her face. And finally brought her out of bed.

  He went grocery shopping alone while Cassie soaked in the tub and dreamed of an entire weekend free of museum work.

  Bobby had promised, and she was holding him to it.

  She didn’t question her startling assertiveness with a man she had only met a few days ago.

  She figured her newfound propensity for female power must be a by-product of the practically nonstop sex. It only made sense. What with her hormones on a rampage and the full moon and that female goddess thing and all.

  NINETEEN

  AFTER A LUNCH THAT BOBBY PREPARED FROM the groceries he’d purchased; after Cassie had said with awe at least a hundred times, “Where did you learn to
cook like that?”; after they’d finished the last drop of butterscotch pudding with whipped cream and the final morsel of chicken fried steak and real handcut french fries; Cassie called Emma for Paige and Sarah’s addresses.

  “You’re home, I see,” Emma said. “We haven’t seen Bobby Serre today, either. Could that be a coincidence, or is my female intuition working overtime?”

  “Neither. I just happen to be working at home,” Cassie lied, not about to go into detail about the type of work she’d been doing, although just the thought of her brief consultancy on Romano’s sketchbook brought a smile to her face. “I don’t know where Bobby Serre is.”

  Unfortunately, Bobby called out from the bathroom, “Where’s the shampoo?” at that inopportune moment, his voice loud enough to carry into the bedroom and over the phone lines.

  “You lucky girl, you,” Emma murmured.

  After answering Bobby, Cassie anxiously said to Emma, “Don’t you dare say a word. I mean it. Arthur would be impossible if he knew. And that’s not just me talking.”

  “Don’t worry. As if Arthur has to know anything. Your secret is safe. Now, you go, girl, and all best wishes for the future from me and all your friends at this fine institution. Not that I won’t expect a blow-by-blow some day in the far, far distant future.”

  “Thanks, Emma. You’re a dear.”

  “So is he hung?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “He’s standing there?”

  “Sort of,” Cassie lied again, her red-hot sex life turning her into a lying nymphomaniac, but she just couldn’t bring herself to actually discuss the length of his really spectacular you-know-what to a work colleague.

  “Then we’ll talk business. One item of a less cheerful nature, your ex phoned yesterday. He couldn’t scream at you on your voicemail, and he sounded deeply frustrated. Something about suing your ass if you don’t turn over some painting.”

  “Jeez. Sorry he bothered you.”

  “Not a problem. I told him you’d gone to Paris for a conference and wouldn’t be back for two weeks.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  “I know. I also told him you were staying there with an old friend—Georges Bellecoure—you know, the one Jay dislikes ’cuz he’s gorgeous and rich.”