Sheer Pleasure
Page 1
“I can fulfill your wildest fantasies,” Nate murmured
Annie shivered as his warm breath laved her ear. She leaned back into his body as they stood together on the rooftop garden. She felt his growing hardness against her.
“Just tell me what you want.” He squeezed her breasts gently and she thought she might faint. But he held her fast while his hands worked themselves down to her waist. He started to untie her dress, and she hesitated.
Did Nate intend to remove her dress here, in public? Make love to her, in public?
“No one will see. It’s dark,” he urged with a smile in his voice.
He tugged at the dress and it opened. The cool spring air nipped at her exposed nipples. Annie hadn’t been able to resist. She’d worn the sexy tiger-print lingerie he’d requested. The thin silk covered very little.
She should tell him to stop. But her body felt wet and slick and hot. And after all, he was about to fulfill one of her wildest fantasies….
Dear Reader,
Writing for Blaze is a bit of a departure for me. Normally I write romantic suspense for the Intrigue line, but when I heard about Blaze, I thought I could write something a little different—erotic thrillers.
I wanted to use an urban setting, something I knew a lot about since I’m a native Chicagoan. I picked an up-and-coming neighborhood and then I populated it with characters that I hope you’ll grow to love as much as I do. Annie, Nick and Helen have been best friends since college. They even quit their jobs to strike out on their own and start their own businesses. And they’ll support each other as they fall in love and meet danger head-on.
Annie’s story was a Sheer Pleasure to write. I hope you’ll agree and watch for Improper Conduct, coming next in my CHICAGO HEAT miniseries.
I love to hear from readers! You can contact me at: P.O. Box 578297, Chicago, IL 60657-8297 or e-mail Patricia@PatriciaRosemoor.com. Check out my Web site at www.PatriciaRosemoor.com
Happy reading,
Patricia Rosemoor
Books by Patricia Rosemoor
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
563—THE LONE WOLF’S CHILD
567—A RANCHER’S VOW
629—SOMEONE TO PROTECT HER
SHEER PLEASURE
Patricia Rosemoor
To my husband, Edward, in appreciation for your continuing support of anything I choose to do.
And to my editor, Birgit Davis-Todd, who took a chance on something a little different.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
1
Dear Annie,
While others may wonder about the success of your lingerie shop, I wonder about you—about the woman hidden in the brown paper wrapper.
If I peeled away the layers, would I find a woman in filmy, lacy, see-through garments? A woman who longed for me to trust that she is more than she appears to be?
What are your secret fantasies, I wonder?
And would you give me the chance to find out for myself?
An Admirer
HER HAND TREMBLING, Annie Wilder set down on her desk the ecru stationery with the lacy texture across the top. Romantic stationery for a man to use, she thought. It kind of went with that comment about lacy, see-through garments.
She should be scared. So why wasn’t she?
Some man whom she might or might not know had sent her this anonymous letter and her imagination was sparked. She was curious about the sender. A little turned on. Definitely not afraid.
That scared her more than the letter itself.
She should have her head examined.
To distract herself, Annie ventured back out to the shop, a deep-rose cave whose corners were draped with gold-shot cream swaths cascading from rings on the ceiling. Midnight-blue and vanilla-cream satin sheets filled the shelves on one short wall, bottles and pots of potions and creams the other. Passing the rack of teddies, Annie let her hand brush the jewel-tone bits of silk and satin and lace as she made her way back to the display she’d been setting up before she’d decided to check the day’s mail.
She was alone this evening—Gloria Delgado, her assistant manager and only full-time employee, had gone home early—but she felt safe enough with the front door locked.
Outside the plate-glass windows, dusk had fallen over the street and traffic had intensified. Diners and dancers and denizens of the neighborhood whirled from cars, buses and the nearby elevated rapid transit station, to swirl down the street along with occasional debris picked up by errant warm breezes. People looking for an evening’s pleasure would surely find it in the restaurants, cafés and clubs lining North, Damen and Milwaukee, the commercial avenues of Bucktown and Wicker Park, two abutting Chicago north-side neighborhoods that met at this six-corner crossroads.
Concentrating on her undertaking, Annie arranged two dozen packets of condoms according to color and turned the simple display into a sensual rainbow.
Then she stepped back and snickered at her fanciful handiwork.
Who in the world, looking at a small woman wearing a long black pullover and leggings, her brown hair braided, her face sans embellishment but for a pair of frameless glasses, would ever imagine that she was capable of sexual whimsy?
“An Admirer” would. She thought again of the anonymous missive in her office.
At least one man had obviously looked beneath the surface to find the real owner of Annie’s Attic, lingerie playground—and the most talked about, written about and picketed business in the neighborhood.
The lingerie itself didn’t have people buzzing, but the way she displayed her wares to inspire fantasies did. After all, wasn’t that the point of wearing expensive pieces of fragile fabric that would rip at a rough touch?
For a moment the thought caught her, an image rolling through her head like a movie.
She strolled along the beach in see-through undies, the envy of the women lounging around her, the object of lust of the men. The cast of thousands faded out, leaving only one man, faceless, but with thick dark hair and a body like Adonis. He moved behind her, cupped her breasts, and with his thumbs only, tugged lightly at the straps of her bra. The fabric shredded instantly, freeing her flesh.
She arched back….
A banging at the front window startled her and pulled her back into the moment. Heart thudding, Annie whipped around to see Nathaniel Bishop, owner of Cornerstone Realty and this building, on the other side of the plate glass.
A little breathless, she rushed to the door and unlocked it.
His eyebrows arched when he got a good look at her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Startle,” Annie countered, covering for herself as she stood back to let him in. Surely he couldn’t tell what she’d been thinking. Warmth surged through her, anyway. “You just startled me, that’s all.”
“I stand corrected.”
He stood more than six feet tall, the dark business suit making him appear sleek and successful…and, to Annie’s mind, just a little too boring. Too bad. He was certainly a looker, with blue-black hair and piercing blue eyes, a slight cleft in his strong chin. But that chin topped a conservative white shirt and a conservative navy-and-red tie that reflected the man himself. Not the kind of guy a girl had fantasies over.
Annie suddenly realized he was staring at her display of condoms.
“New product line?”
A reasonable quest
ion, considering she sold mood music, games for lovers and a line of exotic oils in addition to the lingerie.
Heat crept up her neck. “Not exactly. I just thought I would display them more…”
“Provocatively?”
His tone stirred the short hairs at the back of her neck. “I was going to say prominently.”
“You certainly did that.”
He turned his gaze to her and she caught her breath. That look in his eyes… For a moment she thought she saw something she’d missed before.
She definitely felt as if she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Make that condom jar.
“I just thought I would promote customers taking some responsibility. I was even thinking of giving away a couple of freebies with every sale, what with the fantasies I’ve been told my lingerie inspires.”
“You wear lingerie that inspires fantasies?”
Now he sounded amused, causing heat to flood her cheeks. Great.
“You know what I meant. The lingerie I sell inspires fantasies.”
“Then you don’t wear your own product?”
“Well, yes…I mean…”
She was caught.
And Nathaniel’s amusement had subtly changed. He was still smiling, but somehow his lips seemed softer…more sensual. She could imagine them covering hers, trailing a damp kiss down her throat, nuzzling her breasts through her serviceable black cotton pullover.
Startled when her nipples hardened, Annie crossed her arms in front of her chest in case it showed through the layers of gauzy underwear and black cotton. Nathaniel Bishop was far from the type of man who would make her hormones race. That letter had sparked her fantasies, and he had just happened to be around was all.
“It’s getting late,” she said, straightening a rack of black and red leather waist cinchers that didn’t need straightening. “I need to head for home soon.”
“Someone keeping dinner for you?”
Annie grinned. “If only Rock could learn to cook.”
“Rock. New boyfriend?”
“New cat. I found him in the alley last week. He was scruffy and starving. His little sides were practically sticking together. I’m working on that, though.”
Nathanial’s features softened. “Why did you name him Rock?”
“Because he was trying to eat one.”
“Poor guy, but lucky him to find you,” he said. “I won’t hold you up, then. I just stopped by to make sure you weren’t having any more problems with the faucet.”
“You did a fine job of replacing the washer the other day,” she assured him.
Nathaniel Bishop was a dream landlord. No sooner did she call him with a concern than he was immediately on the problem, no matter how small. A man in a designer suit willing to change a washer for a tenant was pretty damn impressive. No wonder he appeared so successful, even though he couldn’t be much past thirty.
“No other complaints?” he asked.
“Not a one.”
“If there’s anything you need—and I do mean anything—just call me.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good. I’ll be going, then.”
He hesitated as if he meant to say more. But if so, he changed his mind, for he nodded and headed toward the door. As he did, Annie glimpsed through the window the broad back of a man rapidly moving away from the store. She thought she recognized Vincent Zavadinski, the man running for reelection as alderman, who was quite vocal in his disapproval of her business.
“Remember, anything,” Nathaniel repeated, bringing her focus back to him.
“Got it,” she assured him. “See you.”
Annie was sure that she would see Nathaniel Bishop, and when she least expected it. He had an office in the building and stopped by every few days to see how things were going. She suspected he wanted to make certain there was no damage to his property. Annie’s Attic did have its detractors, some of whom had picketed her business more than once since it had opened three months before. Just last week, someone had thrown eggs against her windows, she supposed in an attempt to hide her display.
No doubt Nathaniel was keeping a close watch on his investment.
HE WATCHED THE LIGHTS in Annie’s Attic go out, one at a time, leaving only those illuminating the display window.
There, a male mannequin, sprawled on cushions, wearing only a pair of black silk boxers covered with dozens of bright red lips, and a pair of matching socks. His female counterpart sat upright, posed as if removing a sweater, revealing a red satin bra beneath. The window had changed over the course of the week. The couple had started out fully dressed, but one article of clothing at a time had been stripped from them—a clever idea that had brought potential customers back again and again to see what came next. Between the pair of mannequins sat a board game called Deep Undercover, what looked to be a lovers’ version of strip poker.
He’d like to go undercover with Annie Wilder. The thought had obsessed him since she’d set up shop.
The front door opened and she stepped outside to lock it. He moved deeper into the shadows so she wouldn’t see him watching.
He knew everything about her—the hours she kept, where she lived, where she played.
It was only a matter of time.
DECIDING THAT SHE COULD use a strong cup of coffee to energize her on the way home, Annie rounded the corner and ducked into Helen’s Cybercafé, located on one of the six corners and adjacent to Annie’s Attic. The place was trendy but comfortable, with crackled pale yellow walls, an overstuffed couch and two upholstered chairs near a fireplace, several wooden tables and chairs for either two or four and, along one wall, a bank of computers.
Best of all, though, her friend, owner Helen Rhodes, was working behind the counter at the cappuccino machine.
“Hey!” Annie called out.
“Annie, hey,” Nick Novak replied from directly behind her.
Giving her a start. Where had he materialized from to follow her so closely into the café?
She noticed he was carrying the equipment bag that held his videocam—so he must have been out on a shoot.
“It’s dinnertime and my stomach is ready to protest.” Nick patted the abs he worked so hard to perfect. “Let’s order a pizza.”
“Uh, excuse me, Mr. Smart Aleck Novak,” Helen said, “but I do serve food here.”
Moseying over to the bank of computers, Nick sat at the only available station, shoved his equipment bag under the table and turned his back on her. “But I want good food.”
He attacked the keys as Helen glared at the back of his neck. But staying mad at Nick was useless, as they both knew—he let anger roll off of him like rainwater—and Helen quickly turned her attention to Annie.
“Your usual?”
“Please. To go.”
“What’s the hurry?” Nick asked.
“Rock.”
“That scraggly little beast can wait a while longer.” Nick left the computer, which was downloading e-mail, to join her. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Sit. Spill.”
Annie sat at the closest table for four. “Spill what?”
He peered closely at her, his golden wolf eyes narrowing. Nick had an intuitive side…and a dark side, as well, she knew.
“You have a certain glow about you,” he said. “A new man?”
“Not exactly.”
He changed his inflection. “You haven’t gone over to the other side?”
She glared at Nick. “Who would you torture if you didn’t have me?”
“Helen.”
“He does it out of frustration because he can’t get a date,” Helen said.
“I have plenty of dates.”
“You mean one-night stands, don’t you?” Helen asked. “Once with you is enough for any woman.”
Unsuccessfully trying to appear wounded, Nick asked, “How did this conversation become about me?”
“You asked for it,” Annie said, grinning at him.
Helen a
rrived at the table with the coffee to go. “He’s right. You are glowing.”
Warmth climbed up Annie’s neck into her cheeks. “It’s nothing. Just a letter.”
“What kind of letter?”
“A fan letter…I—I guess.”
The real reason she’d stopped by the café.
Annie pulled the envelope out of her pocket and handed it to Nick. Still standing, Helen leaned over his shoulder and looked on as he unfolded the missive and read it.
A shiver went through Annie as she listened to the seductive words being read aloud in a deep male voice, but it was a good shiver.
“Hmm, a creative meet and greet,” Nick said.
Helen countered, “Spooky, if you ask me.”
Which was what Annie had been afraid of. Crestfallen, she asked, “You really think so?”
“He didn’t sign his name, did he?” Helen reminded her. “Maybe it’s that weirdo who keeps insisting you wait on him, and says he’s buying all that lingerie for his wife. What was his name?”
“Clive Hardy. He may be a little eccentric, but he’s harmless.”
Helen shook her head. “Get a clue, honey. You’re such an innocent.”
“But this letter is inventive, not crude,” Annie protested. Just then a movement from the corner of her eye made her turn to confront John Riley, who was standing to one side, obviously listening.
“I’m interrupting, aren’t I?” the local gallery owner asked.
Wondering how long he’d been standing there and how much he’d overheard, Annie snatched her letter back from Nick and indicated a chair. Riley came in so often that she figured he was either a true coffee junkie or he had the hots for Helen, which would be no surprise, since her friend was a brainy blond bombshell. With his mahogany hair, green eyes and broad shoulders, Riley was no slouch himself.
“No biggie,” Annie said as she slid out of her seat. “I was on my way out, anyway.”