“Don't sell yourself short.” Donovan Martin, a suitcase in one hand and his briefcase in the other, stood in the doorway. “You're certainly sweet enough.” He planted a kiss on her lips. When she didn't kiss him back, he leaned back and eyed her. “Aren't you glad to see me?”
“Shouldn't you be at home preparing tomorrow's lesson on the mating habits of South American monkeys?”
“I've taken a small leave of absence. My teacher's aide is handling the lectures for the next two weeks.” He smiled and for a split second, her heart actually stalled. The reaction still surprised her, even after thirty-seven years and three daughters.
It surprised her because of the thirty-seven years and three daughters. In the beginning, she'd written off the feeling as a young woman's lusty response to an attractive young man.
And now?
An old woman's lusty response to an attractive old man. Even at sixty-two, Donovan was a sight with his tall, lean build, his salt-and-pepper hair and his brilliant green eyes. He was still as handsome as ever, more so because he had the maturity to go with his looks. And she still wanted him as much as ever.
At least she did when her schedule allowed and they met for their monthly appointment. He would fly to her or she would fly to him and they would forget everything save their hunger for one another.
But this was different. They weren't at some hotel during a scheduled visit. This was her apartment and it was the middle of the night and he hadn't so much as called to announce his visit. As if he expected her to drop everything to accommodate him.
The way her mother used to accommodate her own father when he returned from one of his sales trips. Ruella Farrel had always been waiting with open arms, and what had her devotion gotten her? An earful of complaining about everything she did wrong, a stern lecture about a woman's duty, and the occasional fat lip.
“We need to spend more time together,” Donovan said.
“I think we spend plenty of time together.”
“Well, I don't.” He stepped forward and she had no choice but to step back. He set his suitcase inside the doorway and shut the door.
“I can't spend time with you right now. I'm working.”
He grinned. “No problem. I'll take a shower while you finish up, then we can have something to eat. I'm starved.”
“But I'm not even close to being finished. I have several hours of tape to study.”
“I'll wait.” He kissed her then, just a soft press of his firm lips against her open mouth and damned if she didn't have the sudden urge to toss her notebook aside, kill the video, and join him in the shower.
The thought faded in a rush of panic as she shook her head. “This simply won't do. I need to concentrate.”
“Does that mean you see me as a distraction?” Hope gleamed in his eyes.
Her mouth drew into a tight line. “It means,” she bit out, “that I need complete quiet and solitude when I'm working. I don't need to hear the shower running, and I don't need you puttering around the kitchen, distracting me.”
“Don't give it another thought. I ordered at the twenty-four-hour deli around the corner.” He gave her another kiss. “I got you a corned beef on rye.” His eyes twinkled. “Your favorite.”
“Maybe I'm not hungry.”
“You can save it for later. Look,” he told her, his large hands closing over her shoulders, “I just want us to spend a little quality time together. I miss you.”
“I miss you, too, but—”
The shrill wail of the doorbell disrupted her words.
“That's the deli. Why don't you answer the door while I jump in the shower?” Before she could reply, he snatched up his suitcase and started down the hallway for the bedroom.
Frustration welled inside her and she had the sudden urge to rush after him. But judging from the stern set of his shoulders, she wasn't about to turn him around let alone steer him back out the door.
“How much do I owe you?” Jacqueline asked when she opened the door to the teenage boy holding two large brown sacks.
“Not a thing. Mr. Martin already paid when he ordered.” He handed her the sacks. “He even took care of the tip.” And then he turned and left her standing in the open doorway, her own words echoing in her ears.
When a man pays for something, he expects something in return.
“Jacqueline?” Donovan's voice drifted from down the hallway. “Can you bring me a towel?”
The question echoed through her head, stirring a rush of memories from her past. Of her father demanding this and ordering that. Of her mother crying herself to sleep at night because she'd tried so hard and her efforts still hadn't been good enough. Her father had been mean and manipulative and physically abusive and the day he'd died had been the best day of her mother's life.
“For your information,” she said as she pushed open the bathroom door a few seconds later and ripped the shower curtain aside to glare at her very naked significant other, “my freedom cannot be bought with a corned beef sandwich.”
“I would never dream of buying your freedom with a measly sandwich.” He grinned and peered into the bag. “That's what this extra-thick slice of cheesecake is for.”
“Very funny.” She did her best to ignore the way the muscles in his arms rippled as he pulled the white box from the bag and held it out to her. Water drip-dropped down his tanned skin and she swallowed. Hard.
“Strawberry glaze on the side,” he added, pushing the box into her hands. “Just the way you like it.”
“I'm not hungry.” She set the box on the nearby vanity and folded her arms over her chest. “I'm busy. You can't just barge in and disrupt my life.”
“I'm not barging and I'm not disrupting. I'm simply taking a shower and then I'm eating and then I'm going to bed.” He handed her the bag and winked. “You can go back to doing what you were doing. I won't disturb you.” At her doubtful expression, he added, “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a womanist needle in my eye.”
She eyed him for a long moment before giving in to the grin that tugged at her lips. Okay, so maybe his presence wouldn't be that unsettling to her routine, and she had established boundaries—namely that her work came first and he came second. It was sort of nice knowing he missed her. Not that she needed him to miss her, or that the knowledge fulfilled some sort of empty void inside her, or anything ludicrous like that.
It was just nice to know, and she was making much more of his sudden appearance than need be. He wasn't moving in, for heaven's sake, or making excessive demands or disrupting her routine in any way, shape, or form. He was simply paying a visit. Keeping her company. Spending time with her, with her full consent, of course.
But before she consented, she intended to finish studying her tape and documenting her advice and preparing fully for tomorrow's taping, and she wasn't giving Donovan a second thought.
“Try not to use all the hot water,” she said as she pulled the curtain closed. She made it two steps before his voice stopped her.
“Don't forget the towel, honey. Oh, and it would be really nice if you could help me with my back. I can't quite reach.”
So much for boundaries.
Xandra Farrel had a plan.
After a sleepless night spent thinking and rethinking about what had happened that evening—namely Beau Hollister's pronouncement that he didn't want a clingy female following him around—Xandra had come up with an idea to get him off her front porch and into her bed. Judging by his stubborn expression, she knew nothing short of a polygraph was likely to convince him of her sincerity when it came to the relationship issue. Which meant she had to approach him from a different angle.
A sexier angle.
He'd obviously been turned on, just not to the point of surrender. Which meant that all Xandra had to do was turn him on even more, until he reached the point where he could no longer think. Just feel. Then to sex or not to sex would no longer be a choice.
She had a plan, all right, and it involved the full-
blown seduction of Beau Hollister.
Okay, so maybe it was more of an outcome than an actual plan. She knew what she wanted to do, but she wasn't the least bit sure of how to get there. While Xandra knew sex better than most women, she wasn't nearly as competent in the seduction department. Other than the night with Beau when she'd been barely seventeen, she'd never had to seduce a man. Mark had been the one who'd pursued her early on in their relationship. He'd taken the initiative when it came to sex and everything else in their lives. Later on, she'd never had to do anything more than kiss him to make her intentions clear.
But this was a different situation altogether.
Soft, cool fingers brushed her thigh and drew her from her thoughts. She opened her eyes to see the woman who stood beside the table.
“Relax, sweetie. Otherwise, it's going to sting.”
Xandra stared down the length of her towel-clad body to the exposed thigh and pelvic area. Her fingers dug into the sides of the table as the hot wax was applied to her bikini line and lower. Much lower.
While she didn't know nearly as much as she needed to when it came to seducing a man, she did have enough sense to know that making herself as physically attractive as possible was a good first step. That meant cutting out all the sugary substitutes for her smoking habit and finding something healthier to put into her mouth. The extra ten pounds she'd gained would melt away before she knew it. In the meantime, she had an unwanted gray hair to get rid of.
“You've done this before, right?” Xandra asked.
“Too many times to count,” replied the young woman who was wearing a white peasant blouse and pants. With long brown hair, a name tag that read and a wide, upbeat smile, she looked more like a cheerleader than the chief skin specialist at Savoy's, an elite salon and spa located in the heart of Houston's upscale Galleria area.
“Too many, as in a thousand?”
“Give or take a few hundred.”
“Which is it? Give or take?”
Gigi smiled as she reached for a cloth strip and applied it over the hot wax. “Just take a deep breath and find your happy place.”
Xandra clenched her teeth against the warm sensation tingling along her pubic area. It might have actually been enjoyable if she didn't know what was to come.
Not that she actually knew, but she could just imagine how much it was going to hurt.
Forget sting. Taking off Band-Aids stung. This was going to be more along the lines of full-fledged, grit-your-teeth-to-keep-from-screaming hurt.
“You're not in your happy place.” Gigi smoothed the fabric strip over the wax, rubbing this way and that.
“I'm not likely to be until I get out of here.”
“I didn't mean literally. Happy is a state of mind. All you have to do is visualize.” More methodical rubbing. “A white sand beach. A field full of daisies. A clearance sale at the Gap. Just pick one, close your eyes and go there.”
“I'd rather see what you're doing.”
“Watching takes away the element of surprise, which takes away the element of—”
“Ouch!” Xandra squealed as the woman ripped off the fabric strip. Pain splintered through her, pulsing along her nerve endings and making her head spin.
“Gotcha,” Gigi declared, her voice much too high-pitched and pleasant for a woman who was this close to meeting her maker.
“You got me, all right. And just as soon as my eyes stop watering, I'm going to grab a few handfuls of that shiny brown hair and see how you like it.”
Gigi laughed and smoothed another strip near her opposite thigh. “You're vocalizing your tension. That's good. If you keep it pent up, you'll stay tense and being tense just makes it—”
“—sting,” Xandra finished for her. “Yeah, I know.”
“But if you're relaxed or focused on something else, it's much better. See, you were focused on the sound of my voice, rather than what I was doing, so you weren't expecting a surprise and—”
“Holy cripes!”
“Gotcha again.” She held up the strip dotted with hair. “We got ’em. All five of them.”
“Five of what?”
“Five gray hairs.”
“But I don't have five.”
The woman's forehead wrinkled as she stared at the strip and then down at Xandra. She smiled. “You're right. There aren't five. There are six—wait. Make that seven.” She turned and reached for the wax spatula.
Seven? “You're not doing it again, are you?”
“You wanted a neat Brazilian wax, no gray hair.”
“Which means you're not doing it again.” Because no way did she have seven of the godawful things. No way. No how. No.
“There, there.” The woman smiled and dabbed the wax. “Just go to your happy place.”
Xandra drew in a deep breath, closed her eyes, and damned Father Nature.
That's right, Father Nature, because no woman would doom another to gray hair and Brazilian waxes and unnaturally cheerful spa consultants named Gigi.
Chapter Twelve
Seduce Beau Hollister into having sex.
Later that afternoon, after waddling back to her office and munching a full bag of carrot sticks, Xandra was still sore, hungry and clueless. She stared at the first entry on her daily to-do list and tried to come up with a solid approach to the task. While she knew what she wanted to accomplish, she had no clue how to go about getting it done.
Sex was her business. Her passion. And so she knew everything when it came to giving and receiving pleasure, from the hottest foreplay techniques to the most popular cuddling positions during the postorgasmic bliss phase.
But seduction? That was a different matter altogether.
She knew she had to keep her approach very low-key and nonthreatening. She had to be sexy, yet sweet.
Inviting.
Alluring.
Romantic.
The notion was about as familiar to the daughter of the country's leading womanist as the dreaded “L” word itself. Xandra spent the next few hours doing an Internet search and printing out any and everything she could find on the subject of seduction. By the time five o'clock rolled around, she'd come up with a substantial list that included everything from surprising someone with a bed covered with rose petals, to a steamy bubble bath, to a massage by candlelight.
The problem? She would have to get Beau into her house to accomplish any of those things and she had a feeling that was going to be the real killer. He was sure to be skeptical after yesterday, not to mention she'd used up most of her good excuses for needing a man in her house.
Which meant she really needed to be subtle.
Which meant she was in deep trouble because Xandra wasn't much for subtlety. She was raised by a woman with a loud voice and an attitude when it came to everything. Jacqueline Farrel lived by the steadfast rule that women had been quiet for much too long. It was time to shake things up. To wake people up—namely men.
A woman is like a sleeping lion. She looks so soft and cuddly with her eyes closed and her face buried in her paws, but she is really a strong, ferocious creature to be dealt with. Men, of course, don't realize this until we lift our heads and prove it. So roar, sisters. Roar!
Jacqueline had raised her daughters accordingly, to be lions in every aspect of life, from the bedroom to the boardroom. Xandra wasn't accustomed to beating around the bush. She went after what she wanted like Cujo after a great big piece of steak.
In this instance, Beau was her T-bone.
The thought consumed her for the next few minutes, until Kimmy walked in looking as perfect as ever in a fitted champagne-colored jacket and skirt. A pink blouse added a splash of color to the outfit, along with matching four-inch stiletto heels that would have done Barbie proud.
“Great bracelet,” Xandra said as the woman set a stack of folders down on the corner of her desk, along with the latest issue of Cosmo which featured a full color ad for Wild Woman. Silver hearts inlaid with tiny diamonds dangled from her wrist.
The men Kimmy hooked up with all had the same way of saying thanks after a date, be it jewelry or a scarf or a pair of shoes.
Xandra had wanted to ask many times exactly what they were thanking her assistant for, especially since their show of appreciation usually cost a pretty penny—Kimmy had a weakness for top-of-the-line stuff—but Xandra had always been too afraid. The young woman was like a daughter to her, and nobody but nobody wanted to think of their pure, naive daughter doing it, much less doing it well enough to warrant a big show of gratitude.
Daughter?
Okay, so make that her younger, impressionable, wholesome, well-dressed kid sister. Either way, the idea was the same. She didn't want to blow her image of Kimmy.
Then again, she was desperate at the moment.
“When you ask a man into your apartment,” she asked Kimmy, “what do you say? To get him inside for a little, you know, fooling around.”
“Well,” the young woman said as she set aside the finished catalog for next season and perched on the edge of Xandra's desk. “It depends to what degree we're going to fool around. Sex or making out or both. If I wanted sex, I would probably say ‘Would you like to have a bite to eat and get naked?’At Xandra's questioning glance, she added, “I like to cook for my men. Anyhow, if I wanted to just make out, I would probably say something like, ‘Would you like to have a bite to eat and make out?’If I wanted both, I'd probably say ‘Would you like to have a bite to eat, get naked, and make out?’I find that being up front usually works best.”
Yeah, right.
Xandra forced her attention to the Cosmo issue that was sitting on her desk. “This looks good.”
“It's great, and what's even better is that Tyra Banks is on the cover and she's wearing this black Armani dress that's really banging.” Kimmy sighed. “And she's carrying a Fendi bag. And wearing this gorgeous shade of red lipstick. Sephora's new Blazing Berries. I just bought a tube yesterday. And the silver eye shadow. Christian Dior. And the blush. M.A.C.’s Cherry Jubilee.”
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