Читать книгу Brief Encounters - Suzanne Forster, Suzanne Forster - Страница 7

SWAN MCKENNA had been inspecting half-naked men for the better part of the afternoon. And she still hadn’t found Mr. Right. Watching men strip down to their underwear was a job most women would have loved. And Swan should have loved it more than most. It was her underwear they were stripping down to. Well, not her underwear. She was wearing that. This was underwear she’d designed.

Now she needed a guy who could sell it.

“I need a man who can bump and grind!” she implored.

Swan was speaking on her cell phone to her assistant, Gerard Nichols, who was acting as host for the auditioning models. Swan’s partner, Lynne Carmichael, who normally dealt with this sort of thing, was on the road doing advance work for their upcoming boutique tour. Her departure had left Swan and Gerard scrambling to get ready for the launch party tomorrow night. This was their first real show and L.A.’s fashion press had been invited for an exclusive sneak peek at the “cheeky” new line of male undergarments.

If Swan wasn’t a bundle of naked nerve endings, she should have been. She and Lynne had worked for years to get to this place, against staggering odds. The fashion world regularly feasted on its own young and Swan felt a little like a chicken wing right now. One scathing review could crush them.

A couple of guys who can striptease without getting all tangled up in their army camouflage thongs. Is that too much to ask?

“It’s a Village People revival out here,” Gerard replied in theatrical whispers. “We’ve got a Native American chieftain, complete with headdress, a fireman with an ax, a pistol-packin’ cowboy. And, oh, my, call 9-1-1! The telephone repairman who just walked in is to die for, Swan. To die for.”

Gerard was stationed in the foyer and Swan was in the spacious music room of the Italianate villa that had recently become the operating headquarters for Brief Encounters, Swan and Lynne’s design company.

“Oh, oh, oh, and there’s a Marquis de Sade.” Gerard let out a little squeak. “He has a whip, Swan! An honest-to-goodness whip! Shall I send him in?”

Swan’s only response was a tiny jet of air through her nostrils. Laughter took too much energy. Gerard was in his element right now, she supposed. From the moment she’d first met him, Swan had known that Gerard was gay. She knew because he’d told her. Hello, my name is Gerard Nichols, and I’m gay. At the time Swan had wondered if that was how he introduced himself to everyone. She discovered later that, generally, it was.

When he’d walked into her tiny Manhattan Beach, California, office that day, he’d also informed her that he was answering her Assistant Wanted ad and she need look no further. Sure, he’d grown up wanting to be an underwear model like Mark Whalberg, but, at thirty-something, he was a little too fond of strawberry-cheesecake ice cream. Design was his second choice, but he couldn’t draw. So he was content to be indispensable.

And he was. Swan would have been lost without him.

“Let’s try the telephone repairman,” she said. “He sounds safer. That fire-swallowing Adonis you just sent in here dropped his baton and nearly set the place ablaze. No more of that, okay? And no more live animals, especially snakes.”

Swan didn’t like snakes and this one had actually fallen from its handler’s bare shoulders and slithered under the sofa Swan was sitting on. She still had goose bumps over that. It was a wonder it hadn’t sent her running to the bathroom to relieve herself. For as long as she could remember, she’d suffered with a high-strung bladder. Some people got hives when they were nervous. Swan McKenna had to pee.

“But, Swaaaan—”

“No way, Gerard. Nothing creepy crawly, nothing with more than two legs, nothing flammable and nothing that is going to explode. This is a fashion show, not a demolition derby. Besides, I’m late with the insurance premium this quarter. I’m not even sure we’re covered.”

She heard him sigh into the phone. Gerard enjoyed bells and whistles and had been arguing that the party’s fashion show needed more special effects. Since Swan and Lynne couldn’t afford pyrotechnics and laser lights, Gerard had suggested they let the models provide the runway pizzazz. Swan had finally agreed that he could invite some of his more exotic friends to audition, but this was ridiculous.

“The marquis looks like fun, Swan. Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure, Gerard. Do not send in the guy with the whip.”

Gerard clicked off, and Swan went back to work on the growing stack of portfolios provided by the models. Résumés and glossy head shots were strewn across the glass-topped coffee table she was using as a work surface. Most of the guys were wanna-bes rather than professional models, which was lucky because Brief Encounters was currently too broke to pay modeling fees. The party food and decorations were largely donated, thanks to Gerard’s ingenuity, and the men who’d shown up to audition were volunteering their time, hoping to get some exposure, probably—which shouldn’t be a problem in her underwear.

Swan held the back of her hand to her forehead and felt the stickiness. August was typically the hottest month of the summer, even at the beach, and the fifty-year-old villa wasn’t air-conditioned. Swan had dressed defensively, in capris and a tank top, but naked would have been too warm in this place.

The kicker was that she wasn’t even supposed to be doing this task. Lynne had cooked up the impromptu launch party idea, hoping it would generate some publicity. It was a good idea and Swan had gone along with it, but Lynne was the gregarious one, the free spirit who had a flair for this sort of thing, which was why she worked sales, marketing and PR. Swan was the organizer and the bean counter. She also did most of the actual designing, but other than a few fittings and alterations, she rarely worked with the models.

Lynne was supposed to have come back to run the auditions, but she’d left a message from San Francisco, saying that something big was up and she would call back later to explain. She’d also dropped the name of a huge international designer. Lynne loved being mysterious, but this wasn’t the time, not when they were facing their first-ever tour. At least Lynne had finalized all the details of their first runway show in Los Angeles, including the models, but Swan still had the launch party to deal with.

The music room door opened and the telephone repairman was all but pushed inside by Gerard, who grinned and waggled his fingers at Swan before leaving. The new model looked around as if he had no idea where he was or why he was there. A bad sign. Swan waved him into the room, but he didn’t budge.

“I’m here to—”

“Yes, I know,” she said brightly. “Great outfit. You’re my first repairman, and I must say, it works.”

And how it worked. This guy could have installed her phone any day of the week. Gerard hadn’t done him justice, she realized. If Lynne had been there, she would have given him the compliment she reserved for lifeguards and the Olympic water polo team: studly.

Of course, Swan was trained to notice such things, but the man’s legs were so long he must have had his blue jeans specially made. And who could miss the way he’d planted himself, his hips canted at an angle that emphasized their narrowness and the wide rake of his shoulders. The expression on his face was priceless, too. Bemused and quizzical, faintly suspicious. Male.

Swan felt heat stealing up the back of her neck and realized she was having a physical reaction right here in the music room. Was that possible? Something was tingling, and it wasn’t her bladder!

“Ma’am…?”

His voice snapped her out of her trance. What in the world was she doing? Fantasizing in broad daylight? The only question that should have been on her mind at that moment was, can he dance?

“The CD player’s over there,” she said, pointing at the boom box that Gerard had set up on an antique tea cart. The regal old piece sat by a wall of cherry bookcases that housed the room’s music library, and Swan wondered if the cart was appalled at the noisy machine that was vibrating its brass knobs and handles. She wondered if the whole house was appalled.

“Go ahead and put your music in,” she told him.

The heat had now spread to her face, but she resisted the impulse to fan herself as she sorted through photos. She found one she planned to call back, but now she needed a pencil to make a note of it. Of course, every pencil she owned was missing in action. When the August weather had started to get to her, she’d pulled her long auburn hair up into a loose bun to cool her neck. Patting around, she found a No. 2 Ticonderoga stuck in the waves. Her hair probably resembled a floor mop by now, but there wasn’t time to repair it. She tugged the pencil free, her hair miraculously staying in its knot, and her gaze drifted toward the model.

He was standing right where she’d left him.

“You didn’t bring any music, right?” Some of the guys had brought their own CDs and some hadn’t. “That’s okay,” she said as she hurried over to the boom box, popped in a disc and pushed the Play button. Hot, pulsing music filled the room. If you could dance, “Disco Inferno” was your song.

The music was too loud to talk over, so she gave the model a directorial point of her finger. “You’re on,” it said. She moved to the music herself, shaking her shoulders and nodding encouragingly. She’d actually had to dance with one of the guys to get him going, and it looked as if she had another shy one on her hands.

Maybe that was the secret of this one’s appeal. Not just studly, but shy.

He was heart attack material, she admitted, wondering what she was going to have to do to inspire him. It was just plain hot the way his blue work shirt fell open at the neck and his tool belt hung on his hips. His hands were braced on the worn leather and he’d cocked his head, as if to say he wasn’t making a move until he was good and ready. But, boy, when he did. All he would have to do was to shake those shoulders and women everywhere would fall on their noses. Swan was teetering already. He could have sold underwear to a nudist colony.

This was the best raw material she’d seen all day, so to speak. She had to get him dancing. Okay, what would Lynne do? she asked herself—and not for the first time. Her partner had a bold, carefree manner that Swan had always admired. Lynne knew how to keep men guessing, which seemed to make them want her all the more. She was flirty and provocative, but whenever Swan tried that, she got into trouble. Maybe this was her chance to practice.

Swan walked briskly over to the model. To hesitate was death. As she approached, he gave her a searching look and a lazy smile that said he might be checking her out, as well. Not as shy as she thought? She felt an instant’s unease but dismissed it. Her mission was to find men with happy feet. Sure he looked good, but could he move? Could he dance and undress at the same time? Could he make a woman hot, maybe even her, who hadn’t been above 98.6 in years? And, more important, could he sell the thongs, briefs and tank tops that were going to be Brief Encounters’s showcase products?

“Maybe I can help,” she said. “Just relax and go with me.”

She braced her legs and rotated her hips, only to see his brows flatten skeptically. “Come on,” she coaxed. “You can do it.”

She began to sing along with the music and shake her shoulders, but still nothing. What? Was he practicing to be a palace guard?

With a sigh, she placed her hands on his hips and began rocking them back and forth, encouraging him to rotate. This was exactly what Lynne would have done, but it was so not Swan McKenna. Her heart was pounding as fast as the music.

“Yes, that’s it!” she said, thinking she’d felt him move. “Work with me. That’s right, work with me, baby.”

Work with me, baby?

She didn’t dare look up, or he would have seen the flush creeping up her neck. She gripped him harder, rotating wider. “Shake it one time for me,” she croaked.

What was happening to her voice?

“Ma’am?”

“No, keep moving,” she insisted. “I think you’re getting the idea.”

Swan was staring at the man’s rotating pelvis so hard she could have counted the teeth on his zipper. It didn’t take X-ray vision to know what was lovingly cradled inside those beautifully worn jeans. She could see the tell-tale bulge. It ran nearly the length of his fly, and as much as she didn’t want to be guilty of ogling him, there was nowhere else to look.

“You are so hired,” she said under her breath.

She wasn’t quite sure what happened next. Either her hands slipped or he suddenly mastered Bump and Grind 101, because his rotating pelvis came into brief heated contact with her thigh.

“You mean, like that?” he asked.

Swan gave out a little squeal and jumped back. She sounded like Gerard, but the unexpected contact had startled her. Had he actually brushed her leg with his crotch? Obviously this guy didn’t need any more help. He had the idea.

“Oookay,” she said, “that was progress.”

Swan was now red to her scalp. Nevertheless she ordered herself to meet his gaze and to hold it until she’d calmed down. He still looked a little perplexed, rather like a stag in headlights, but she wasn’t buying the innocent act. This was a business and she had a show to put on. Her entire future was riding on it and the futures of others, as well. She’d had to let their seamstresses go until things picked up, and that had been far harder to do than this. Besides, Lynne would never have been playing coy games with one of these guys. She might have coaxed him along with a few dancing lessons, but if he hadn’t caught on, he would have been sent on his way.

“Nice move,” she said, trying to sound faintly sardonic. “Now drop those jeans and show me what you got.”

Her partner would have been proud.

But the repairman was still hesitant and something in Swan took over again. This was where all the other models had balked, too. Not that she blamed them. She couldn’t have stripped for an audience, either. With her nerves she would have had to wear diapers!

Business, she reminded herself. You’re not asking him to expose state secrets, just the underwear you designed. All the models were supposed to be wearing Brief Encounters under their costumes.

“All right, I’ll help,” she told him, “but this is the last time.”

She walked back to him, snappily undid the tool belt that hung around his trim waist and let it drop. It landed on the floor with a heavy metallic thud.

Whoa. The ladies were going to scream when that happened. Swan could guarantee it. If he had anywhere near the effect on them he was having on her, Brief Encounters was going to sell out their stock at the first show.

“Disco Inferno” blared into its chorus and the repairman lifted his hands as if he were either surrendering the fort or waiting for her to do the honors. Swan quickly obliged, wondering what alien organism had taken control of her brain. She undid the brass button on his jeans and lowered his zipper.

“I can’t do this for you on the runway,” she said.

But then again, maybe she could. What a video clip that would be. It’s the middle of the fashion show and one of the models can’t get his costume off, so the designer goes up to help him? That could be a showstopper. Oh, my God, Lynne, come back. I’ve either had a flash of brilliance or I’m losing my mind.

His jeans were undone, but she still had the challenge of getting them over his tightly locked gluts. It took some tugging, but finally the denim material gave way and dropped to the floor. Unfortunately the stubborn jeans took her with them. Suddenly she found herself squatting right in front of him, staring at the bulge in person. But there was just one problem.

He wasn’t wearing her underwear. He wasn’t wearing anyone’s underwear!

It was a penis, Swan realized to her horror. The very thing she was trying to cover with her designs. No one should ever see a penis in one of her shows, especially one that looked suspiciously…alert?

Swan was just inches away from said organ, but she was still too shocked to do much of anything but gape. Worse, much worse, for some inexplicable reason, she was intrigued. Her whole body vibrated with a wild, unfamiliar emotion and for one crazy second in time she fought off a terrible impulse to touch it. Only to see how it felt. She wasn’t going to run a finger up and down the entire length of it or fondle it, for heaven’s sake. She was just curious.

The object of Swan’s fantasy suddenly twitched and a strangled sound slipped from her throat. Worse, her valiant attempts to speak resulted in nothing but helpless gurgles and groans. At that very moment the music room door opened and as if summoned by the Devil himself, Gerard poked his head in.

“Are you finished? Oh, I guess not!” He swiftly shut the door.

Swan knew how it must have looked. And sounded, given the obscene noises she’d been making. She would never hear the end of this. At least the music had stopped. She wasn’t sure when that had happened. Now she needed to get up off her knees so she could climb to the top floor of the mansion and jump out the window.

The model offered a hand, but Swan didn’t dare. He was bottomless and parts of him were still winking at her. What in the world was wrong with him? Did his privates have some neurological disorder?

“Ma’am? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, turning away from him to get to her feet. Once she’d managed that, she slapped smooth her bunched-up capris and straightened her top.

Without turning around she said, “I guess there’s no point in getting you some underwear and starting this audition over?”

“No, probably not. I don’t dance.”

“You don’t wear underwear, either. So then, why exactly are you here?”

“To fix the phone?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the decidedly virile specimen with his jeans around his ankles. “You really are a telephone repairman?”

“Afraid so,” he said.

“Oh, my God.”

“Can I put my pants on now?” he asked.

What had she done? Swan had no idea what the correct etiquette was in a situation such as this. Should she go back and pull his pants up for him? Should she beg his forgiveness? Luckily, the repairman wasn’t concerned about manners. He bent down, grabbed his jeans and shimmied back into them. As he retrieved his tool belt, a flood of apologies began pouring forth from Swan’s mouth. She wondered if she and Lynne could be sued for something like this! That was all she needed. A sexual harassment charge.

“Could I give you some underwear?” she offered. “A lifetime supply?” Now she was bribing him. Were there laws against that?

“What fun would that be?” he replied in a tone that was wickedly soft.

She searched his handsome face, looking for signs of mercy and compassion. “Fun? Oh, right! That wouldn’t be any fun at all.”

Was that a flicker of amusement in his cool blue eyes? She couldn’t tell. She was momentarily distracted by the striking contrast of the dark hair falling onto his forehead and his faintly arched brows. She would have given anything to know if he was attracted to her. His body seemed to like her well enough, but maybe that was an aberration. She didn’t usually have that effect on men.

He picked up his tool belt and draped it over his shoulder. “Maybe you should point me to your office,” he said, “and I’ll make myself useful. Someone reported a phone problem.”

Swan wasn’t aware of any such problem, but Lynne or Gerard could have called it in. “Through that door and down the hall to your right,” she said. “You can’t miss it. There’s a life-size poster of a local lifeguard in Brief Encounters. We wanted Vin Diesel, but—”

He was already heading for the door. “I am so sorry,” she called after him. “I thought you were one of the models. Really, I did! Sir?”

He hesitated, and she immediately thought better of the question that had been in her head since she’d been on the floor in front of him. Is that normal for you? I mean, in a resting state, is that normal?

“Never mind,” she said, waving him on. “I just, uh, well—I’m sorry about that twitching problem. I have a nervous condition myself.”

He turned around with a glint in his eye that was positively demonic. “Nerves don’t make me twitch,” he said. “Women do—and you should be sorry.”

His voice was dangerously low and husky, and she had the feeling he didn’t often give women the once-over quite so boldly. His hot gaze brushed her body, lingering here and there—especially there, as if he were imagining her with her pants down and him on his knees. Her belly clutched deeply. Her skin had begun to flush and tingle, and by the time his eyes returned to hers she was actually trembling inside. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Swiftly another sensation came upon her. She had to pee! She crossed her ankles and smiled as best she could under the circumstances.

He must have noticed because he snorted low laughter. “Maybe we had both better get back to work?” he suggested. And with that he was gone.

Swan groaned and headed for the bathroom, which was just off the music room, fortunately. Her face was still ablaze with embarrassment, but at least she would get a moment alone to collect herself.

From behind she heard Gerard call out, “Oh, Swaaan…”

She stopped dead in her tracks, whirled around and pointed her finger at him. “Not a word, Gerard. Not one word from you.”

“Whatever you say,” he murmured.

Swan thought she heard a reference to “Deep Throat” as she dashed into her sanctuary and shut the door. She didn’t have to see her beastly assistant to know that he was grinning from ear to ear.

ROB GAINES should not have been smiling. He had work to do. He shouldn’t have been thinking about her, either, but short of a drug-induced coma, he didn’t see that happening. How often did an incredibly hot redhead sidle up to a man, pull down his pants and drop to her knees in front of him? At a moment like that there wasn’t a whole lot else to think about except what she was planning to do next, with her breath so steamy hot and her gorgeous mouth just inches from his—

The twinge of near pain in his groin brought him back to his senses.

Gaines, stop smiling or you’re going to permanently injure yourself.

He pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers and went to work. But as he played with the phone, his thoughts veered back to her. Too bad he couldn’t sign up for dance lessons. She could teach him how to dip and he could teach her what happens when curious little girls play games with big boys.

He could imagine reaching around to undo all that wild redness she kept piled on top of her head and letting it fall loose around her shoulders. He could also imagine kissing her gorgeous lips until they were wet with desire.

He could imagine a few other things, too, but his jeans were getting crowded again—and he had work to do. A mission to accomplish. Quickly. Before anyone had a chance to walk in and interrupt him.