Authors: Susan Lyons
Champagne Rules (16 page)
Future.
Her
future
, several more years down the road, was Mr. Cleaver. He’d be considerate, like Jaxon. With any luck he’d be sexy too. So . . . Was there any chance Jaxon might be Mr. Cleaver in disguise?
Suzanne leaned against the wall of the shower and considered that question. The timing was all wrong. They lived in different countries. They were different races. That fact had been brought home to her last night, with a vengeance. If they were a couple, there’d be other nasty incidents.
And if they loved each other, they’d weather them as they had last night. Other people’s prejudices wouldn’t drive them apart, but bring them closer together. No, for her, race definitely wasn’t a reason to avoid commitment. But there was one really strong reason. The girl who wanted to marry Mr. Cleaver was boring, sensible, old-fashioned. And when she thought about it that way, she didn’t see Jaxon in the Mr. Cleaver role. He was a perfect match for sexy Suzanne, but not for her sensible twin.
Nor, when it came right down to it, did she want to think about all that future-oriented, settling-down stuff at the moment. This erotic adventure was as unexpected as it was amazing, and she wanted to revel in it for as long as she and Jaxon could sustain it. And she truly believed that required strict obedience to the Champagne Rules. She climbed out of the shower, toweled herself briskly and put on a robe. In the kitchen, she fed the cats and made coffee. She toasted a whole-wheat English muffin, slathered it with her mom’s homemade strawberry jam, and took her breakfast back to the bedroom where she booted up her computer. She hadn’t checked her e-mail since Friday night.
There was a message from caveman, one he’d sent late Friday night after he’d received her own. He said: Naughty dreams? Bet on it. What other kind could I have, when dreaming of you? Can’t wait to be inside you again . . .
Hmm. He hadn’t e-mailed last night, or this morning. Well, it had been very late when he dropped her at the Miata, and maybe he’d had an early flight. But she had hoped for something. An e-mail kiss to say how fabulous the weekend had been. Confirmation that he hoped they’d be able to meet again next weekend, as they’d discussed.
Suzanne made a fist and bopped herself on the side of the head. There she went again, with the shlocky stuff. Resolutely, she turned her attention to the rest of her messages. Most were from her Foursome pals. Jenny had e-mailed yesterday evening saying, Wondering how those condoms are holding out . . . ☺☺☺
Suzanne clicked REPLY. FYI, chocolate’s not as good as the real thing (candy or cock
☺☺☺☺☺
Rina’s Saturday message said, Hope you and Jaxon are having a wonderful time. Can’t wait to hear all about it. Drop me an e-mail and let me know you’re okay.
Suzanne answered. More than okay! Yes, we had a great evening. I’ll tell you all about it on Monday. And then there was Ann, from eleven o’clock on Saturday night. Damn it, I’m trying to avoid phoning to say CALL ME when you get home! I know, I know, you’re a grown-up and I’m not your mom, but I’m concerned—and curious! Write and tell me you got home safe, and whether you learned any more about the mysterious Jaxon. Suzanne typed, I’m home and fine, and we had a great time. She paused, then typed more slowly. Did I learn more about him? Yes, in one way. I learned he’s considerate. But I don’t know what he does for a living, I don’t know about his parents, or if he’s got siblings. I don’t know his favorite color, favorite movie, Zodiac sign, what kind of books he reads. IF he reads!
She halted her flying fingers. She hadn’t realized how bugged she was at not knowing these things. But how could she ask, when she wasn’t prepared to share the details of her own life? Besides, knowing would violate the Champagne Rules, and she’d just finished persuading herself those rules were essential. Decisively she grabbed the mouse and deleted everything after “considerate,” then began again. I know his surname’s Navarre, he has terrific taste in clothes, he’s got an awesome body, he likes convertibles, and he’s a FANTASTIC lover. What more do I need to know right now, Ann? I mean, this is just about sex. It’s not about a future.
We’ve set up what we call “Champagne Rules.” We’ll see each other occasionally, for wild and crazy sex, but not so often the bubbles go flat.
She thought of Ann’s reaction at reading these words. Her friends saw her as so conventional, and damn it, maybe she was, but she had a fun, exciting side too. Jaxon had proved that to her. She began to type again.
He is not my Mr. Cleaver. He’s my fantasy. Every gal’s entitled to a fantasy, isn’t she? And when it comes to fantasies, on a scale of one to ten, he’s a twenty!!!! ☺ ’Nough said?
There, that ought to tell Ann where things stood.
It was only after she clicked SEND that she reread Ann’s e-mail to her. Hmm. Her friend had referred to Jaxon as mysterious, but she hadn’t challenged the nature of their— Okay, she had to call it a relationship, there simply was no other term. So, why had Suzanne responded by being so . . . Yeah. Defensive was the only word.
As she finished her English muffin, she debated sending an e-mail to Jaxon. Nope, forget it. To date, she’d made the overtures. This time, she’d leave the ball in his court. And hope he batted it back to her.
Jax, after having splurged on the Porsche in Vancouver, took the BART from the airport to downtown San Francisco. He made decent money, but had clear priorities: his mom’s mortgage, and a wardrobe that said “success” to clients and colleagues. When he’d finished law school, he’d traded the student jeans-and-dreads look for a more conservative, professional one.
He walked the few blocks to work, waved at a couple of other lawyers who were in, then went into his office. His desk had grown a half dozen more piles of paper since he’d left on Friday. The message light on his phone was blinking and, when his computer booted up, the e-mail in-box was loaded. Phone first. He set it to speaker and pressed the PLAY button, then scribbled notes as he listened to half a dozen messages. When he heard his mother’s voice, he smiled and settled back in his chair.
“Hey there, son.” You couldn’t say she had an accent, exactly, just a sunny lilt that warmed his all-business office.
“Figured there’d be more point callin’ you at work than home.
Don’ imagine you’ll get back to your apartment any time soon.”
Oh yeah, his mom knew her kid.
“Hope you had a nice little holiday this weekend. Any chance you’ll tell your mama all about it?” She gave a rich chuckle. “I’ll bribe you with dinner. Any night this week. Or next weekend, if you’re not gallivantin’ off again.”
He picked up the receiver and hit her speed-dial number. As the phone rang, he glanced past the piles of waiting work to the sunshine outside. Crap. Sometimes he hated how hard he had to work to get where he wanted to be.
But hell, he’d blown the weekend; now he had to pay the price.
When his mother answered, he said, “Dinner’d be great. If I work like crazy tonight, maybe we can do tomorrow.”
Experience told him Monday was his best chance; after that, the week would get even crazier. “Okay if I let you know in the afternoon?”
“Sure, hon. Call me at the shop soon’s you know, and I’ll buy groceries on the way home, throw together somethin’ special.”
After a day on her feet at the clothing store, the last thing she needed was a couple of hours standing in the kitchen cooking.
“How about I take you out for dinner?”
“Save your pennies, I’ll cook.”
“Let me treat you, Mom. God knows I owe you for all the dinners you’re always feeding me.”
“God knows you do not owe me anything, boy. It’s a mama’s job, and her joy, to look after her baby.”
Baby. He was thirty years old, a lawyer climbing toward partnership at a prestigious law firm, damn well determined to look after his mom in her old age—and still the woman wanted to take care of her “baby.”
What could he do but love her? And take her to dinner.
“Let’s both be lazy and let other folks wait on us. Isn’t there some restaurant where the food measures up to yours?”
There was a pause, then she said, in a thoughtful tone, “You know, I think I’ll take you up on that offer. You hang up now, Jax, and work hard, so’s we can go for that dinner. We’ve got lots of things to catch up on.”
Hmm. Sounded like something new was going on in her life too. And she, unlike he, was willing to share. He hung up, cast a final longing gaze at the sunshine outside, then dove into the work on his desk. After a couple of hours, he realized he’d been even more productive than usual. Who knew that awesome sex would have this side benefit?
He ought to do it more often.
And, on the subject of Suzanne . . . He called up his caveman e-mail account. Hmm, nothing from her. Did that mean he’d failed to deliver what she’d been looking for?
Leaning back in his chair, he did a quick memory rewind. Nah, he was damned sure he’d satisfied her. Over and over again.
He whipped off a quick note. Hey, outrageous69, that was one hell of a fine weekend. Wore my poor old bod out, but I’m betting I’ll be “up” again by next weekend, if that works for you. Hell, sexy lady, I’m already up, just thinking about you. So, what do you say? He clicked SEND.
Gotta love Suzanne. Any other gal would require some sentimental bullshit, which he sure as hell didn’t have the time to make up.
Also gotta love the Champagne Rules. Her invention. She ought to write a book. Might not be many women who’d buy it, but every guy he’d ever met would be lining up, getting the hots just imagining being with a woman like her. Hell, he’d hooked himself up with every man’s wet dream. But right now he was a lawyer not a lover, and shouldn’t be wasting billable time on dreams. He speed dialed for pizza delivery, then got back to work. It was after two when he left the office.
Suzanne chose a long, loose skirt and a tailored blouse to wear to the usual Sunday family dinner. When she studied her reflection in the mirror, the woman looking back could have been applying to join a convent.
“Nope,” she told her cat audience, “it’ll make Mom suspicious.”
She stayed with the long skirt, but replaced the buttoned-up shirt with a figure-hugging coral tee. Yeah, that ought to get her by the mom radar.
Before she left, she checked her e-mail. For, oh, about the twentieth time. Now, finally, she found a message. Aha! So he was “up,” just thinking about her. Her spirits were up too, now that she knew he was still turned on, and wanted to see her again.
Hurriedly, she typed, Up? Oh, I do like you “up,” caveman!
If she had more time, she’d indulge in a little cyber sex. Oh well, his message had been brief, so she’d reply in kind. Her fingers flew over the keys.
That’s a thought that’ll give me steamy dreams, imagining all the things we can do when you’re “up.” There must be one or two we haven’t tried yet, right? How about this? I’ll come up with one, you come up with another (there’s that magic word again
It would be pricy to fly down to San Francisco. He’d paid for the last flight, but he obviously had more money than she did.
She was curious about how he’d entertain her. Would he invite her to stay at his place?
No, that would break the Rules. She’d learn his taste in furniture, artwork, books, music. Maybe see family pictures. Besides, she couldn’t stay at his place because she couldn’t return the offer if they met again in Vancouver. No way could Jaxon Navarre stay overnight in her converted garage, just outside her parents’ kitchen window. Oh God, this was getting complicated. It would take ingenuity on both their parts to stick to the Rules.
“Suzanne?”
It was her sister’s voice, calling from the garden. In a minute, she’d come through the open front door.
Suzanne’s fingers flew as she added, Can’t wait to see you again. She clicked SEND, closed out of e-mail and was just shutting down the computer when Bethany knocked twice on the doorframe.
“Suze, you here?” she called.
“Hi, Beth.” Suzanne met her in the main room, and they exchanged hugs. “Just finishing up some e-mail.”
Her sister grinned. “Remember the days before e-mail ruled our lives?”
“Nah, I was too young. It’s only middle-aged folks like you who remember that,” Suzanne teased. Bethany was eight years older, but definitely didn’t look her age. Beth ran a hand through short hair that was already tousled.
“The kids are—”
The screech of happy childish voices cut her off as Krystina and Declan burst through the door and tackled Suzanne.
“Dying to see you,” Bethany finished dryly. Suzanne bent down and returned the enthusiastic hugs of her niece and nephew. Declan, at three, was growing so fast he’d caught up with four-year-old Krys. With their dad’s dark hair and big brown eyes they almost looked like twins. One day, she wanted a pair of her own, just as happy and healthy as these two.
For a fleeting moment, she imagined what her and Jaxon’s children would look like. Gorgeous, if they took after their father. But if they took after him, would they too suffer because of racial prejudice?
She shook her head, forcing away the thoughts. Not relevant. Pregnancy would definitely violate the Rules!
“You’re looking especially good, Suze,” her sister said.
“Have you done something?” Bethany scrutinized her carefully. “Not a new hairstyle or new clothes. Looks like you got some sun, though—your face is glowing.”
“I did spend some time at the beach this weekend,” Suzanne said, biting the inside of her lip so she wouldn’t laugh.
“Let’s go, Auntie Suze,” Krys said, tugging at her hand. “I’m hungry.”
“Me too.” She held out her other hand to Declan, who latched on, and let the two kids pull her out the door. “Do you know what’s for dinner?”
“Chick’m,” Declan said decisively. “And smashed ’tatoes.”
“Mmm, my favorite.” Her stomach growled affirmation. Oh yeah, she’d definitely made the transition to sensible Suzanne, the potato lover.
Over her shoulder, she said, “Beth, there’s strawberry shortcake in my fridge.”
