Читать книгу You Sexy Thing! - Tori Carrington, Tori Carrington - Страница 7

New York City

“GEE, THANKS, BUD, you’re a regular Donald Trump.”

Dylan Fairbanks folded back the magazine he was reading and frowned at the hygienically challenged cabby. Did that mean he had tipped the driver too much or too little? Hard to tell. That was the problem with New Yorkers. Their sarcasm cut both ways. He shrugged, deciding a two-dollar tip was more than generous. Especially considering that they’d left his stomach—and his notes for today’s appearance—somewhere on the Queensboro Bridge. The autumn breeze had snatched the notes out of his hand and carried them through the half-open window. Unfortunately, the breeze had left behind the stench he’d been trying to clear out in the first place.

A valet opened the door and Dylan climbed out, looking over the fifth hotel he was scheduled to stay at in as many days. It was certainly larger than the one he’d stayed at in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, the night before. Good. He could use the basic creature comforts like a laptop connection and virtual anonymity to catch up on his correspondence and see to work that he’d fallen criminally behind on since leaving San Francisco last week.

But first he had to find his publisher’s PR rep, Tanja Berry. She had disappeared sometime last night with little more than a brief note saying she’d meet him here this morning. He scanned the people bustling in and out of the revolving brass-framed door, wondering exactly when she had planned to meet him. Since no one sported her purple-tipped short black hair, he guessed it wasn’t now.

Where was she? He glanced at his watch. She had better show up soon or else they’d never make it to the radio station in time for his interview.

“Dr. Fairbanks?”

Dylan freed his overstuffed suitcase from the revolving monster that doubled as a door then grimaced at a uniformed young man with bad acne. “It depends on what you want.”

The guy looked puzzled, Dylan’s halfhearted attempt at humor skimming right over his head.

He sighed. “Yeah, that would be me.” A prospect that usually left him pretty satisfied with himself and his life, but right now made him want to trade his doctorate for a teamsters membership card.

“You’re already checked in, sir.” The concierge-in-training handed him a room key, then wrestled him for his one suitcase. “It’s Room 1715. Miss, um, Berry suggested you go on up. She’s already there.”

“Very good.” He tugged on the handle of his suitcase, battling the youth for control. “And I can see to this. Thank you.” He finally gained possession and nearly fell over backward for his effort.

Miss Berry had likely already given the kid a generous tip for scouting him out. He wasn’t about to pay him any more. He brushed away the pang of guilt and told himself he was being savvy. But the simple truth was that he had grown up with very little money of his own, and now that he had money, he was hesitant to part ways with it. You never knew what the future held. And over the course of the promotional tour he was coming to think he was in the wrong business. He was convinced hotel employees made more per annum than he did. He headed for the glass-encased elevators. This was one less entry he’d have to make on his expense sheet. And that was always a plus.

Dylan punched the up button next to the elevators and stood back to wait. And wait. And wait. He ran his hand over his face. Only five days into his three-week promotional book tour and he wanted to change his name and move to someplace where nobody knew his name. Where no one called him “the world’s greatest sex expert.” Where people didn’t know he’d written a book, much less two—the latest one bearing the misleading title Reaching New Heights—Advice on How to Obtain Ultimate Sexual Pleasure. Having men sidle up to him at book signings to ask what tips he could give them to drive the opposite sex wild—wink-wink—had lost its patina long ago. And so had the women of all ages and socioeconomic backgrounds who slipped him hotel room keys that he immediately threw into the wastebasket he always kept under the signing table.

If his “fans” had bothered to look beyond the racy cover copy, they would have already had the answers to their bawdy questions. No, he couldn’t give anyone tips on how to drive women wild. However, if they were looking to satisfy their spouses, then maybe he could give them advice. As for the hotel keys…well, anyone who’d actually read his bio would know that he had been celibate by choice since his divorce four years ago. Any woman who openly propositioned him, no matter how lovely or innocent looking, immediately forfeited a spot on his very short list of prospects for “the next and last Mrs. Fairbanks.” In fact, the list was so short it held only one person.

Speaking of which…

He released the handle of his suitcase then fumbled in his inside jacket pocket for his cell phone. A glance at his watch told him it was not only too early to reach Diana at work on the West Coast, but that he was running seriously late. If this damn elevator—

Ding.

Sighing, he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket and stepped inside the empty, moving fishbowl that served as an elevator. Staring at the unmarked plastic key, he tried to remember the room number. Seventeen-fifteen. He punched the button for the seventeenth floor, only vaguely noticing that the button for the sixteenth was already lit though the elevator was empty. He stepped to the glass and watched as the lobby grew farther and farther away. People milled around the large open area as he grasped his cell phone again. He hit a preprogrammed number then glanced at the magazine he still held, listening to the line ring.

Sex Doctor Grace Mattias Leads the Way into a Brave New Sexual Frontier.

Dylan stared at the headline. “‘Brave new sexual frontier,’ my narrow behind.” It looked like she was recycling the same old line of BS carried over from the sixties. The left sidebar held a cartoon of a redhead in a tight, short dress holding condoms in one hand, a monstrous vibrator in her other. His gaze drifted to the other page. The caricature there—presumably of him—showed a dark-haired guy holding his hands in front of his crotch with a horrified expression on his face like some male virgin from the Regency period. What the caricature didn’t say, the headline did. Doctor Fairbanks Declares Monogamous Marriage Only Path to Sexual Fulfillment.

If he had known the features editor had planned to pit him against someone else, much less this apparently graceless Grace Mattias, he never would have agreed to the interview. Sure, his message was there. Couched between below-the-belt jabs at his conservatism and purposely provocative counterpoints provided by Mattias. Not exactly his most stellar appearance.

The line stopped ringing. “Hello—”

“Diana. I’m glad I caught you. I’ve—”

“You’ve reached the residence of Diana Evans…”

Dylan stared at the phone then grimaced. He’d gotten her answering machine enough times in the past two days, he should have been ready for the deceptive pause between Diana’s greeting and her regrets. But he’d been fooled every time. Which made him feel like an even bigger fool.

Pressing the disconnect key, he distantly wondered where she was so early in the morning. It was only five in the morning in San Francisco. Much too early to have left for her job as junior partner at Coulter, Connor and Caplain, Attorneys-at-Law. He’d been hoping to make contact with her to share the decision he’d made before leaving for his trip. Well, not share it share it. He wanted to arrange for her to meet him in Miami later next week. It was late enough in the year for the north to be chilly and he’d thought balmy Florida would be the perfect place for him to propose to her.

He frowned, looking down at his naked ring finger. Sometimes he swore he could still make out the tan line where his last wedding ring had been. His imagination, of course. It had to be, because he hadn’t worn the ring for four years. And then it had only been for a meager four months.

Well, okay, maybe he’d kept it on for a year. He’d been so shocked when Julie had filed divorce papers he hadn’t thought to take the blasted thing off for at least eight months. It had taken his mother’s threat to sandblast the sucker off in his sleep to make him twist the simple gold band down the length of his finger. Of course his mother, Sharon—who preferred to be called Moonbeam—had objected to the visual symbol of possession—even during the short time he and Julie had been married. She’d had her own wedding rings melted down to a charm in the shape of an eagle over thirty years ago, shortly after she and his father had married. She wore it on a clinking bracelet that bore other mutilated remnants of what she called her “formal, materialistic life.”

Dylan didn’t even want to think about what his father had done with his ring. Especially since his latest interest included body piercings.

Thirty-six years of marriage and his parents still acted like flower children left over from some long-forgotten era. Hell, he hadn’t even introduced Diana to them yet. A niggling part of him still thought his parents had played a role in Julie’s sudden defection. It was awfully coincidental that five days after he and Julie had gone for an overnight visit to El Rancho, his parents’ communelike spread in northern California, she’d packed her bags and left.

He absently rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t really blame his parents for what had clearly been his fault. No matter how tempting. Or how easy. He and he alone had been responsible for that fiasco. He’d let his libido dictate a lifetime decision, one that was better made over time. Like the amount of time he’d taken to develop his relationship with Diana.

Sure, he’d known the moment he met Diana sixteen months ago that she was the perfect matrimonial choice. For one thing, she was the complete opposite of Julie. In place of Julie’s wild brunette good looks Diana was sleekly blond. Where Julie had preferred tight-fitting primary colors, Diana chose loose-fitting earth tones. Where Julie had wanted to run off and get married in Vegas within hours of their first meeting, Diana seemed to prefer to allow him to take his time to make decisions, never breathing a word about matrimony unless he broached the subject.

Dylan straightened. This time when he uttered the words “till death do us part,” he intended to see them through to the utter end.

Of course it would help if he could actually get Diana on the line.

The elevator doors behind him finally slid open. Grasping the handle of his suitcase, he exited, then followed the arrows toward room 1715…no, 1615. There. He slid his card key in, waited for the red light to turn green, then turned the handle. Nothing.

Damn. What else could possibly go wrong on this trip?

He tried again more slowly. Then again, more rapidly. The door refused to give.

He stepped back in exasperation. The bellboy obviously had given him the wrong card.

He stared down the long hall that would take him back to the elevator, then down at his watch. He was really running late. The faint sound of Latino music caught his attention. He spotted a maid’s cart a couple of doors down. Without thinking twice, he started toward it, reaching for the cash in his pocket. He wondered how much it would take to get the maid to let him into his own room.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take much doing. The young woman opened the door for him, then actually held her hand up and said something in Spanish. She walked away without taking his money.

Dylan slowly tucked the cash back into his pocket. I’ll be damned. Maybe his day was starting to look up.

He stepped into the room to find steam billowing from the bathroom on his left. Probably as-immodest-as-they-came Tanja was catching a quick shower before the interview. He turned the corner, intent on knocking on the door and reminding her of the time, only to find the door wide-open. And a woman he’d never seen in his entire life taking a shower, the curtain thrown all the way open.

Dylan went completely, utterly, speechlessly still.

Mere feet away from him, a very…tall…very…well-developed woman stood under the oscillating spray. Water clung to perfectly rounded breasts then cascaded over dusky, erect nipples, to slide down a wonderfully toned stomach. He swallowed hard, powerless to stop his gaze from venturing even further. Crystalline droplets clung to the red-gold, curly thatch of hair between her slender thighs.

Dylan dug his fingers into his palms, vaguely aware of the way they suddenly itched. To his surprise, he found himself jealous of the water. He wanted to be the one to explore every inch of flawless skin the water touched.

His mind finally kicking back into gear, he brought his gaze up to her face.

She was watching him.

“Imagine that. My own personal Peeping Tom.” A smile flitted across her lips. “You don’t mind locking the door on your way back out, do you, Tom? I mean, after you’ve looked your fill.”

Dylan felt his skin grow hotter than the steam coating him. “I can’t believe… I have no idea… I am so very sorry. I must have the wrong room.”

He somehow backtracked his way to the hall, his feet moving though he didn’t recall sending them the order to do just that. He stood staring at the room that looked like any other as the automatic locking door slowly began closing. What in the hell had just happened? A scant second before the door could close completely, he stuck a hand out to stop it, then reached in to tug his suitcase out.

He collapsed against the door and closed his eyes, dragging in deep breaths to even out the hammering of his heartbeat.

He supposed this was the way kids felt after they walked in on their parents having sex for the first time.

He groaned at the comparison, then moved away from the door, as if just touching it was somehow…immoral.

He’d made an honest mistake. That’s all. He’d gotten into the elevator. Got distracted thinking about the lack of sex in his life. He swallowed again. No, no, the limbo status of his life. Then got out on the floor that had already been pressed before he even entered the damn thing.

He’d never been so embarrassed…so humiliated in his entire life.

Well, okay, there was that one incident when he was twelve when his mother had stripped him of his swim trunks in the pool, trying to teach him the finer points of nudism. But this ranked a very, very close second.

GRACIE MATTIAS TUCKED a thick white towel around her body then padded quickly toward the door. A cautious glance around and down the hall outside told her that her uninvited guest was long gone.

She closed the door then stared at the locks. There was the automatic one. The double bolt. The security chain. One by one she locked and checked all of them, not surprised that her fingers were trembling. It wasn’t every day that one got surprised in the shower like that. She realized the logic of her statement, and the unlikely chance that it would happen again in this lifetime, then sighed and undid all the locks again. She forced herself to turn and stalk into the living area of the sumptuous suite. She refused to live her life in fear of what might happen. Or spend every spare moment looking over her shoulder for lurking degenerates. Or check the back seat every time she got into her car. For heaven’s sake, she counseled people on how to overcome such emotional fears. She couldn’t begin to cater to them herself.

She swiveled on her heel, then secured every damn lock again.

There was fearless and there was stupid. And no matter how adorably dumbfounded the man was who had turned her normal shower experience into something to remember, the simple fact was she didn’t know him from Jack the Ripper.

She stepped back into the living area, picked up the phone and dialed a room number.

“Very funny, Rick,” she said when her personal assistant answered. Suddenly she wondered why he had a room three floors away from her. Shouldn’t he be next door? Ready to protect her honor should some Peeping Tom burst into her room for an eyeful while she was in the shower?

She grimaced. Give her a minute and her subconscious would recreate the infamous shower scene from Psycho. She really needed to get a grip.

Something thudded on the other end of the line. “What’s funny?” he said.

Gracie sank into the king-size mattress and switched the receiver to her other ear. She’d chosen her assistant for his organizational skills, not for his sense of humor. It didn’t hurt that he was five years younger than she was and could double for Leonardo DiCaprio. Of course she’d have to nip his comedic tendencies in the bud right now if she was to remain sane during the next two weeks of her promotional tour. “I know I said I was getting bored with this trip. But did you have to send me a Peeping Tom to liven things up? Certainly even you are more imaginative than that.”

Rick’s long-suffering sigh sounded over the line. “Grace, what are you blathering on about now? Peeping Tom? You’re sixteen floors up. Unless you’re talking about someone looking at you through binoculars from the building across the street—”

“I’m talking about the guy who just walked into my room while I was taking a shower.”

“Aah.”

“So you did have something to do with it,” she said with relief, picking up a copy of her book, which lay on the bed next to her.

“Nope.”

“Rick, I’m going to hang up now.”

“I think you’re losing it, Dr. Mattias.”

“You’re just catching on now? Rick, I lost it way back when you were still calling your penis a pee-pee.”

His laugh tickled her ear. “You know, this sex-talk stuff is taking some getting used to.”

“This from someone who hears it every day. Anyway, we’re not anywhere near indulging in sex talk, Rick. I merely called an important part of your anatomy by its proper name. I could ask you what you call it.” Grace fanned her thumb against the three hundred and some pages of her hardcover book. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that she had had the discipline to sit down and write such a tome on human sexuality. Other times, she remembered every single word in there and flushed, horrified that she’d actually said one thing or another.

As long as the media never found out she was a fraud.

Well, she wasn’t really a fraud. Exactly. It was just that all of her advice was based on 812 case studies rather than personal experience. Which was as it should be. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that putting her theories into practice would have allowed her a more…intimate insight into what she was suggesting others do with their love lives.

She flipped the book over to gaze at the back of the dust jacket. She hadn’t wanted to include a picture of herself. But there one was. Funny, the woman smiling into the camera appeared very sexually experienced.

She tossed the book onto the floor then curled her toes around the edges.

Another muffled sound filtered through the telephone line, reminding her that she was still talking to her assistant. “Rick, what are you doing?”

“Would you believe me if I said your Peeping Tom just paid me a visit?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” He chuckled, though somehow Grace got the distinct impression it wasn’t meant for her.

Crossing her legs, she switched the receiver to her other ear. “Are you messing around on company time, Rick?” she asked curiously.

She realized she knew very little about her assistant’s private life. Not that she wanted to, mind you. But it suddenly struck her as odd that he would have one. And so soon after their arrival in New York.

She glanced over her shoulder, toward the monumental view out her window, and wondered what life would be like if she had someone in her room with her right now. Preferably a tall, dark and sexy someone who could fool around with her while she was on the phone. Take a long, breathtaking walk with through Central Park. Go see a Broadway play with. Someone to sip cappuccino with at one of those cozy coffee-houses all over the place.

A shiver shimmied down her spine, reminding her just how long it was since she’d been with someone.

Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had breakfast.

Let’s see, a tall, dark and nameless man, or her kitchen with all her shiny appliances and her refrigerator full of food? She twisted her lips. Tough call. Then again, there was no plausible reason she couldn’t have both….

“Has there been a time I haven’t been there for you, Gracie?” Rick said, offering up a non-answer sort of answer that made her smile. “Look, how serious was this incident? Do you want me to contact security and report the guy? Have them change your key card code?”

Her fingers tightened around the receiver. “No, I really don’t want to go through all the hassle. My mind may be telling me I just survived a close call with death, but my gut says the poor jerk just got the wrong room. Anyway, reporting the incident will only distract me from the interview.”

“Speaking of which, I hope this call means you’re ready, because my phone message light is blinking. It’s probably the car the station sent to pick us up.”

Grace yelped and jumped up. She wasn’t anywhere near ready. She eyed the daring, bright pink number she and Rick had settled on for the outrageous radio talk-show host, then lifted a hand to her still wet hair. “See you downstairs in five.”

More like twenty, but he didn’t have to know that.

“YOU’RE LATE.” The junior producer of WDRT’s morning radio show descended on Dylan and Tanja like a swooping crow complete with curved nose and clipboard. Through speakers set up in every corner, a clip of seemingly unending commercials poured over the airwaves. Dylan felt hands on his shoulders. He tensed.

“Sheesh, Doc, I’m just trying to take your coat,” Tanja said.

“Oh.” He allowed her to tug the tan overcoat down the length of his arms, then grasped the new set of notes he’d put together in the cab on the way over.

Tanja leaned closer, one of the spiked, purple tips of her hair nearly taking out an eyeball. She lowered her voice. “Are you okay? You’re wound up tighter than a seventeen-year-old virgin on prom night.”

He grimaced. “Thanks for the comparison, Tanja.”

The instant he’d met the young PR rep his publisher had sent to accompany him on his tour, he was convinced his editor had gone out of his way to make sure he found someone the total opposite of Dylan’s character. Dylan could see Charlie Hasseldorf getting quite a chuckle out of the situation. Then Dylan had landed in New York and discovered that here, nearly every professional Tanja’s age…well, looked like Tanja.

The producer clapped his hands impatiently. “Look, I don’t have time for any prep so you’re just going to have to play it by ear, Doc. The other doc’s already in there.”

“Other doctor?” Dylan choked, looking at Tanja.

She shrugged and smiled, but it was hard for her to look innocent when she appeared to have just stepped out of a tattoo parlor. “I haven’t a clue.”

“Well, isn’t it your job to find out?”

“We don’t have time for this now.” The producer fairly shoved him toward the door. “After you, Dr. Fairbanks.”

Dylan righted himself. What other doctor? And why hadn’t he been told of this beforehand so he could adequately prepare? By now he was used to having his theories challenged by local whackos, but at least he’d been able to do a bit of research before he actually faced the smirking individuals he guessed were chosen more for their disbeliefs than their beliefs.

He was led down a long white hall with various doors leading off it. Dylan straightened his suit jacket and eyed the jeans the other guy was wearing. Perhaps he should have taken Tanja’s advice and dressed down for the occasion. It didn’t matter that it was radio and the listeners couldn’t see him, Tanja had told him. The shock jock could see him. And absolutely nobody wore suits to radio shows.

“Just seat yourself to the right,” the producer said, opening a glass door. “Headphones will be on the counter in front of you.”

The first thing Dylan spotted in the dimly lit room was a camera.

Damn.

Obviously Tanja had also forgotten to tell him they were being filmed.

He grasped the producer’s sleeve before he could vanish along with the PR rep. “Is this being televised?”

“Haven’t you seen the show before, Dr. Fairbanks?”

Dylan frowned. “Seen? I thought this was a radio show.”

“It is. But snippets of celebrity interviews are put together for a nightly half hour show on a cable access channel. Yours will probably air in a week or two, depending on our schedule.”

Dylan stiffened. He didn’t like the way he came across on the small screen. An image of that magazine caricature came to mind. He immediately unclasped his hands where they rested in front of his groin.

For Pete’s sake, it was an entertainment show. Certainly he could handle it. Anyway, it was too late to back out now.

He stepped into the room, bringing into view the radio host, his blond head bent over something an assistant held out to him. Then he spotted the table he was supposed to seat himself at. Eyes focused on the padded headphones, he seated himself then slid them over his head, his gaze constantly flitting back to the camera perched in the corner like an all-seeing, critical beast.

“Hi,” a female voice spoke into his ears. “I’ve heard a lot about you, but I don’t believe we’ve actually met.”

Dylan’s eyebrows popped up as he listened to the low, positively humming voice. He glanced toward a glass enclosure, but the brunette inside—the show’s co-host, he guessed—appeared engrossed in her notes and knocking back coffee.

“I’m Gracie Mattias.”

An odd, swirling sensation began in the pit of his stomach.

“Here. I’m right next to you. The other side.”

Dylan swiveled to his right. Indeed, she was right next to him. And the odd sensation in his stomach pulled into a complicated, inexplicable knot.

The cartoon rendition of her he’d seen in the magazine earlier did absolutely no justice to Dr. Grace Mattias, sex therapist, live and in the flesh. Flesh being the operative word. Generously endowed, alluring flesh. And hair. Fiery, coppery red hair that curled all over the place. He couldn’t fathom why, but he thought of her hair wet. Probably because he had showers on the brain since his unfortunate encounter earlier. Or maybe because when wet the red mass would likely skim down her back to tickle the dimples just above her bottom. And she would indeed have dimples. Decadent, deep indentations that would perfectly complement her perfect body and would beg to be explored by a man’s tongue.

Dylan swallowed…hard.

Then he silently berated himself for such a completely physical reaction to the woman sitting next to him. His adversary. His opposite in every way.

He didn’t know what was with him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen an attractive woman before, much less an attractive female colleague. But attractive didn’t begin to cover Grace Mattias. In fact, nothing much seemed to be covering Grace Mattias. His gaze slid over the hot-pink clingy material of her deep-veed jacket, down, down, to where her skirt barely skimmed the tops of her delicious thighs. Legs that could rival a model’s went on and on until he found himself staring at the highest, strappiest sandals he’d ever seen in his life.

Catching himself, he snapped his gaze back to her face. Her pink, pink lips pursed as she gave him the same thorough once-over. “Actually, I think we have met, Dr. Fairbanks.”

Dylan managed to shake his head, not trusting himself to speak for fear it would come out sounding like a preadolescent squeak.

She tapped a pink-tipped fingernail against her full, luscious mouth. “Uh-huh. In fact, I’m sure of it.” She smiled, revealing nicely ridged teeth that hadn’t fallen prey to a dentist’s sander. “Though I believe I know you as Tom.”

Dylan chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Now I know we haven’t met before. I’d never have misrepresented myself as someone else….” Even as he said the words, a low alarm went off in a part of his brain that still worked.

Her smile widened as she folded her arms under her breasts, causing them to pop up even further. “Yes. As in Peeping Tom,” she finished.

Oh, shit.

It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t possible he’d blundered into another situation with the same woman twice in one day. The law of averages completely went against such an improbability.

Yet here he was. Staring at the water nymph from the shower earlier that morning.