For a Good Time Call

by Trish Jensen

  “She’s still wearing too much makeup,” Sherry called to the director.

  He turned, a rueful grin on his face. “You try to wipe it off her.”

  Several minutes later, Sherry had to suppress a victorious “Yes!” as she watched Tiffany botch her lines again and again. Her movements were stiff, her smile false, her delight forced. She stunk.

  Sherry glanced up at Kit to see if he wanted to go ahead and just fire Tiffany now, and was horrified to find him grinning as if he were pleased with the model’s performance. She couldn’t decide if he was happy. Tiffany was so bad, or if he thought Tiffany was next year’s Oscar winner. When he glanced down and shot Sherry a smug smile, Sherry almost choked. He really thought the woman had talent!

  Stifling rising panic, Sherry glanced around at the other men in the studio. All of them were gazing raptly at Tiffany, entranced. Good God, how stupid could men be? This was not good.

  When they finally wrapped Tiffany’s segment of the commercial, the applause from the male members of the crew nearly brought down the roof. Sherry glanced around, jaw slack. She locked gazes with the only other sane person in the studio, the actress. She looked at Sherry as if the world had lost its collective mind, which to Sherry’s way of thinking, it had. At least the male half of it had. She rolled her eyes and nodded encouragingly at the young woman, who smiled, looking a little less upset.

  While the crew got busy, changing sets for the male actor’s takes, Kit turned to Sherry again, triumph gleaming in his eyes. “Well, what do you have to say about that?” he asked. His tone was so condescending and smug, she wanted to belt him one.

  “I say, if I ever needed proof that men’s thinking takes place below the belt, I’ve just been handed it,” she retorted, before turning and stalking away.

  Sherry, Kit, and the director of the research facility they’d hired to run the focus group were all seated in stuffed swivel chairs at a long conference table, filled with platters of food and jugs of water and fruit juice. Directly in front of them was a one-way mirror, allowing them to watch the group seated around a circular table in the next room.

  The participants were also being fed. There were fifteen women—besides the moderator of the session—all ranging in ages from twenty-five to thirty-nine, and broken down into ethnic groups closely approximating the national population.

  The focus group had just begun, and the moderator was explaining how they would proceed and what was expected of the recruits. She wanted them to watch two commercials, then fill out the questionnaire before them, and then an impromptu discussion would take place.

  At least to the participants, the discussion would seem impromptu. They didn’t know that the moderator was highly trained at eliciting answers to questions Sherry and Jim Forbes had formulated.

  “Why couldn’t Jim come again?” Sherry asked Kit, seated beside her.

  “Lamaze class with his wife,” Kit answered absently, popping a cube of cheddar cheese in his mouth, followed quickly by a plump red grape.

  She eyed his attire. This was the first time she’d seen Kit dressed in anything other than a suit, and she had to grudgingly admit that he looked just as delicious in casual clothes. Even if she was slightly insulted that he had so little respect for this process, and didn’t believe that business attire was necessary.

  He wore gray pleated chinos and a wine-colored chambray shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal a very expensive-looking Cartier wristwatch. His forearms were powerful and masculine, with a light sprinkling of chestnut hair. His fingernails were well-groomed, but didn’t appear professionally manicured. Somehow she liked the image of him caring for his own nails. Why, she hadn’t a clue.

  Sherry herself had felt the need to keep this all very professional, so she had worn her cream tailored suit, with a peach silk blouse underneath. She’d chosen this outfit on purpose. Her cream pumps sported the highest heels, and Sherry had felt the need for height. She was tired of having to drop her head back so far to look at Kit when they were standing.

  Kit used his height as a weapon. She’d learned that early on. He liked towering over her and trying to intimidate her. She found that fact very irritating, if futile. In her opinion, the bigger they were, the harder they fell.

  Still, she was nervous tonight. It had been two weeks since the preliminary shoot, and in that time she’d grown more and more worried over Kit’s constant insistence that Tiffany had proved she could act. Even when they’d viewed the edited videos this afternoon, Kit and Jim had both appeared pleased with her performance. Men.

  Sherry prayed the research company had recruited straight-thinking women.

  The meeting got under way. The participants watched the ads in silence. Sherry tried to gauge their reactions, but they were expressionless, which made her palms sweat. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a Mounds bar.

  Kit glanced at her, his brows raised as he watched her bite into the chocolate. She understood his consternation. There was enough food in front of them to feed a regiment. But there wasn’t an ounce of chocolate among it.

  She savored the taste, letting it soothe her frayed nerves. One of these days her metabolism was going to start protesting her chocolate addiction, and she’d have to find a less fattening substitute. She didn’t look forward to it.

  The moderator turned up the lights and instructed the participants to fill out their questionnaires. The longest ten minutes of Sherry’s life ensued.

  Finally, all the women’s pencils were down and the moderator began the discussion. “Well, what did you think of the two ads?”

  One by one, the women gave their general impressions. They liked the concept, liked the whimsical tone. That was good. They weren’t dissing Tiffany. That was bad.

  Kit sat forward, his face a study in stern concentration. Sherry sat back, and took out a bag of Reese’s Pieces.

  “What do you think of the female model in the first version?”

  “That’s Tiffany,” one lady answered.

  “Right. Did all of you recognize her?”

  A chorus of yeses and nodding heads followed.

  Kit shot Sherry a triumphant smirk. Sherry gobbled more candy.

  “And, what did you think about her performance?” the moderator asked. When no one spoke up, she added, “Anyone, jump in.”

  One tiny Asian woman timidly raised her hand. The moderator encouraged her with a nod. “She . . . can’t act.”

  Kit made a strange gurgling sound and sat back. Sherry made a happy gurgling sound and sat forward.

  The floodgates opened. “I don’t believe for a minute she uses those products,” one woman chimed in.

  “Me either,” said another, the youngest of the group. “No amount of makeup is going to make me look like Tiffany.”

  Kit dropped his pen in disgust. Sherry shook a victorious fist.

  The director sitting beside Sherry excused herself, leaving the two of them alone in the room. Sherry put her bag of candy away, suddenly hungry for something other than chocolate. Biting into a beef hor d’oeuvre rolled with cream cheese and olives, she chewed slowly, before turning to face Kit. “What do you think?”

  His face remained impassive, but his eyes gleamed with genuine puzzlement. “I don’t think anything, yet.”

  Sherry nodded and went back to munching on the finger food, realizing she hadn’t eaten anything but candy all day because she’d been too nervous about tonight. Suddenly, she was ravenous. Within minutes it became blessedly obvious that the women in the focus group could identify with the actress more than they could with Tiffany. As Sherry had predicted, they resented the unfair comparison, and one even went so far as to say, “To me, the commercial with Tiffany in it is a lie.”

  “Uncle,” Kit muttered.

  Sherry wanted, needed, to gloat. But Kit’s concession gave her enough satisfaction without embarrassing him further. “Pardon me?”

  “You win,” Kit said.

  Sherry decided graciousness was in or
der. “At least they liked the concept.”

  “Yeah, at least they liked that.”

  Suddenly, she felt a warmth at her nape, and realized Kit had laid his palm there beneath her bun. She turned to him, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

  “What I’ve been dreaming about doing,” he murmured, “for a long time.”

  “Kit, wait.”

  He ignored her, even as his hand massaged her neck, and his other came up to cup her face. “Do you know, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the day I met you?” he said in a growly voice that vibrated in her ear.

  “But—”

  “You make me crazy,” he continued. “I think about you all day, I dream about you at night.”

  “The focus group—”

  “Is being videotaped,” he interrupted, his thumb sweeping down her cheek.

  Sherry’s eyes shut, as she tried to block the sight of him looking down at her with sudden passion. “Kit,” she whispered, “don’t do this.”

  His thumb rubbed across her lower lip. “So beautiful. So tempting.” He blew out a ragged breath. “You make me crazy.”

  “I . . . thought you hated that about me.”

  “I love that about you. I hate it about me.”

  He pulled her to her feet, then replaced his stroking thumb with his lips, his tongue. Sherry gasped low in her throat as desire coursed through her. Deep, earth-shaking desire. Before she could control herself, she wound her arms around his neck and answered his passionate kiss.

  But a sudden—not to mention rather unwelcome—burst of sanity blew through her, and Sherry pushed him away.

  “Sherry?”

  She turned her back on him. “Just . . . leave me alone for a minute. I need to think here.”

  If she’d expected him to protest, she was sadly mistaken. He didn’t say a word. So she hugged herself and thought things through.

  Why would Kit want to come on to her? She knew it wasn’t overwhelming attraction, not when he could have his pick of women at the crook of a finger. She replayed each private kiss in her mind, trying to discover a pattern to his seduction. What was he up to? What was his game? What did he want from her?

  Most importantly, what did she want from him? Considering the way he tried to control her—

  Sherry’s jaw dropped open, as the fog vanished from her head. Of course! Again she revisited each and every time he’d kissed her when they hadn’t had an audience, and found the one common denominator. Every time had been immediately after a situation where he perceived he’d lost a measure of control.

  Sherry smacked the table, then whirled to face him.

  “What?” he said, a deep vee between his eyebrows.

  “By gum, that’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  She allowed herself a smug smile. “I’ve finally got your number.”

  He seemed to go stiff, a tic starting in his jaw. Then she could tell he was visibly trying to make himself relax. He drummed his thumbs on the table in a vain attempt to appear unconcerned. “Is that right?” he drawled.

  “That’s right, Mr. Fleming, I’ve got you pegged.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think you know about me?”

  Sherry pointed at him. “You, sir, are a control freak.”

  He went stiff again, his thumbs giving up their drumming. “You think so?”

  “I know it, pal.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  Sherry clucked. “Isn’t it obvious? Every time you feel like you’re not in control of a situation, you try to seduce me. Because you know—” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “Because I know . . . what?” he asked, a grin playing at his lips. If he wasn’t careful, before he knew it he’d be smiling, and then his face would likely crack.

  “Never mind. Just admit I’m right.” She thrust out her chin, because even though she was happy to have figured him out, the knowledge that he had ulterior motives for wanting to get close to her hurt just a little. “Just admit that if you could manipulate and control me in the board room, you’d have no desire to try to get me in a bedroom.”

  His gaze swept over her features as he leaned a lean hip against the table. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. I’d want you no matter what.”

  Her heart started thudding almost painfully. “I don’t believe you.”

  He shook his head. “If you want to accuse me of anything, try tenacity.”

  Sherry frowned. “Tenacity? What do you mean?”

  He shoved off from the table and walked to the door. The click of the lock reverberated through the room. He turned back and began stalking her. “You know, tenacity. The relentless pursuit of a goal or goals.”

  She shouldn’t ask. She knew it with every fiber in her. But her lips and her brain didn’t seem to be on speaking terms at the moment. “And just what is this goal you plan to pursue relentlessly?”

  His eyes glittered. “To make you scream with pleasure when you come.”

  Seven

  Sherry very seldom found herself at a loss for words. But right now she was completely flummoxed. She couldn’t have heard him correctly. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he said, crossing his arms and smirking at her.

  “You . . . are . . . the . . . most . . . conceited—”

  He held up his hands, palms out. “What’s so conceited about wanting to give a woman pleasure?”

  “This isn’t about giving pleasure, buster. It’s about control.”

  One of his brows lifted. “Wanting to make you fall apart in my arms means I need to be in control?”

  “Absolutely.” She tsked, shaking her head. “Let me ask you this. If we ever got together . . . that way, would you let me tie you up? Handcuff you?”

  That stopped him in his predatory tracks. His eyes gleamed with a hilarious mixture of humor and horror. He tugged at his collar. “Uh, yeah, sure, if you’re into that. You’re not, are you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” she said, taking a step toward him, while he took a giant step backward, nearly knocking over a chair.

  Two could play at this control thing. If he thought he could manipulate her with just a smoldering look and a deep, wet kiss, he could just think again.

  Sherry wasn’t into teaching lessons as a rule. But this big lug needed to be taught a thing or two. One, that she could play seductress, and maintain control of the situation. Two, that she could kiss him six ways from Sunday, and still remain unaffected.

  He definitely needed to be taught that he couldn’t control her. Not in a board room, not in a bedroom, and certainly not in a focus group room, where they were supposed to be watching a discussion on health and beauty products.

  “Kit,” she whispered, backing him right to the wall. “Kiss me.”

  Kit’s body went taut. He groaned and yanked her to him, his features set in a pained expression. He stared into her eyes for one heart-stopping moment, before settling his mouth over hers.

  Sherry told herself to maintain control. She told herself not to feel, just act. She told herself that she could handle his ravishing lips, his seeking tongue.

  As her arms twined around his neck, she told herself to shut up.

  Kit’s arm banded around her, lifting her to her tiptoes. Then he swung her around so her back was to the table. Sherry felt his arm sweep behind her, and then she barely registered a crash of sorts. Before she could determine the source of the noise, he grasped her waist and set her on the table.

  His hands gripped her knees and spread her thighs apart and he moved between her legs. Breaking the kiss, he gazed down at her, and she gasped at the fiery fever in his eyes. He looked like a man possessed.

  He grabbed the lapels of her jacket and shoved it off her shoulders, trapping her hands at her sides. His eyes burned her wherever they roamed, his hands branded her wherever they touched.

  He was all primal male, and Sherry responded to him like the wanton female she’d so recently discov
ered she could be. Her skirt bunched at her hips, her breasts thrust out as her back remained arched in this imprisoned state.

  “Kit . . .” she breathed, her head falling back.

  His hand cupped her breast as his lips worked down her chin to her throat. He breathed words she couldn’t comprehend against her skin, but she understood the sentiment. They were out of control. Both of them.

  His mouth closed over the silk covering her bra, and she gasped again as his tongue teased her nipple until it tightened and ached. Lightning bolts of desire arced from her chest to her core, streaking in almost painful paths through her.

  With her hands trapped she was helpless to push him away . . . or hold him closer. A swelling and throbbing began between her legs that wanted only to be released. She desperately needed him to touch her there, but she was too crazy to form the words.

  As if he read her fevered mind, his hand slid up her thigh, under her skirt, to cup her very center. “Oh!” Sherry cried. “Oh, Kit!”

  He released her breast and covered her mouth with his own. Sherry vaguely realized that he was probably trying to keep her from being heard throughout the building.

  Smart move on his part, because she desperately wanted to scream.

  He continued to massage her through her pantyhose, one finger, up and down, making her want him with a ferocity that engulfed her.

  It suddenly occurred to Sherry that every move he made was controlled and calculated to bring her all the pleasure. Though she had no doubt he was aroused, he wasn’t nearly as out of his mind as she was.

  Her plan had backfired. And she didn’t care.

  And she didn’t want to take this ride on her own. She wrapped her legs around his hips and dragged him against her, and they both gasped as his steel-hard arousal jutted against her ultra-sensitive center.

  “Christ,” he hissed, gazing down on her with wild eyes. “It’s too good.”

  “It’s just right,” she rasped out.

  “Sherry—”

  “Tiffany’s merely a sex kitten,” Sherry heard a woman say through the speaker. Reality crashed in on her as she realized what they were doing. They were coming close to making love on a table, with only a glass barrier between them and a group of women.