Cruising the Strip (9 page)

“How have you been, Farrah?” Racie held her just a little bit longer than the exchange of cheek pecks. The question, in her sexy contralto and the glance from her dark bedroom eyes made Farrah feel slightly confused, dazzled. That was one thing Racie and Barrett had in common. Both of them had the same alluring gaze that suggested that if were you in private, you’d see a very different woman, and not a woman who was necessarily clothed.

It was a ridiculous thought, she told herself. They were oozing sex appeal for the fans.

Farrah gathered her wits and answered, “Absolutely wonderful. I love it when conventions are in Vegas. There are direct flights out of Honolulu.”

“Isn’t this insane?” Barrett took her by the arm, and suddenly Farrah was in between the two of them, arm-in-arm. “When I found out we were doing a session together it blew me away. I’m so not worthy. They’re all here to see you.”

“You’re too modest.” Farrah found herself glancing back and forth between Racie’s suggestive warmth and Barrett’s bold admiration.

“I’m just making sure the lovely Miss Fotheringay makes it safely to the podium,” Barrett assured someone in the crowd. Her warm hand tightened on Farrah’s arm.

In a heartbeat Farrah was back in San Antonio at the convention six months ago when she’d stumbled going up the stairs to a dais and Barrett, right behind her, had pulled her close to save her from a nasty fall.

The contact had been pure electricity, and the moment had disturbed Farrah’s sleep for weeks. The Internet mania over the amateur photo of Farrah Fotheringay swooning in Barrett Lancey’s arms was what had given Ling the idea for this photo shoot. Well, Farrah had her misgivings. Internet mania needed to translate to sales, didn’t it, or what was the point? Hell, they both had warm hands.

The session moderator introduced them both with suitable flattery, and after some patter, their “conversation” got underway.

The questions weren’t surprises, and as she and Barrett chatted, Farrah was even more aware of the animal charm that Barrett exuded. She was doing it on purpose. The look in her eyes was so blatant at times that Farrah inevitably glanced at Racie, wondering if she noticed. The event was over in what seemed like no time, and Barrett’s efficient groupies limited the number of lingering fans until the three of them could finally have a few semi-private words.

Racie touched the light cashmere tunic that Farrah was wearing. “That blue makes your skin look like fine china. Were you going to wear that for the photos?”

“I could,” Farrah said uncertainly. “I also have a silk dress that has Asian styling to it. Mandarin collar. It’s a similar shade of blue.”

“Speaking purely as a photographer,” Racie said carefully, “I would love to see you in scarlet, and off the shoulder. I’ve got things staged for a sort of fainting couch pose.” Her gaze was so intense that Farrah could feel it on her breasts. “Your round cleavage contrasted against Barrett’s square shoulders, I mean, composition-wise, it’ll be stunning.”

It was just what photographers did, Farrah told herself. They all made their subjects feel beautiful and desirable. She’d done photo shoots before. She knew how the game worked. The trouble was she was going to be smashed up against a damnably sexy woman, a woman who made parts of her feel swollen and hot. And she was going to be watched by another damnably sexy woman the whole while. Racie Racine was an excellent photographer, and after all this time, Farrah didn’t want her secrets divined from a photograph that captured something real, deeper than the persona she’d nursed all these years.

“What will Barrett be wearing?”

“A black vintage gambler’s vest,” Barrett answered, “and tuxedo trousers.”

“The color of bow tie will depend on your dress,” Racie added.

“Well, I don’t have anything off-the-shoulder in scarlet.”

“This is Vegas.” Racie’s smile was conspiratorial. “I actually saw the perfect thing in the window at Yves St. Laurent.”

“I’ll think about it,” Farrah said. So she was going to be half-dressed while Barrett, lucky Barrett, got to be fully clothed. With one eyebrow lifted, she said, “Unless we want to play with gender roles. I wear the tux and she wears the dress.”

Barrett made a low sound of approval. “I’d probably pass out if you wore a tux.”

“She gets faint whenever she watches
Victor/Victoria
—Julie Andrews in a tux.” Racie chuckled. “But she hasn’t worn a dress since the fourth grade.”

“I suspected as much.” Farrah hoped her expression was archly flirtatious, something, anything that didn’t reveal that Barrett’s and Racie’s frank assessment of her body was causing a riot of pleasurable sensations between her legs. How long had it been since she’d had sex, anyway?

That you even have to ask, she told herself, meant it had been too long, and it had been a risky one-night stand, so hardly satisfying. Well, she wasn’t going to find sex in all the wrong places, and Barrett Lancey’s suite was at the top of that list. There was a meeting of escort workers in the hotel—she’d pay for it first.

“Well,” she assumed a bright tone, “I think I have some shopping to do. Are we still on for four p.m.?”

“Four it is,” Racie confirmed. She moved into the casual circle of Barrett’s arm, still giving Farrah that you-gorgeous-thing-you look at which photographers excelled.

Farrah made her way out of the meeting room, convinced she could feel the gazes of both women on her back. Her feet, of their own volition, turned toward the shopping concourse.

*

At four p.m., the door to Barrett and Racie’s suite stood open. A couple of groupies were just inside, sipping wine as they chatted.

“How wonderful to see you,” one said. The other, in the same uniform of jeans and a polo shirt, pointed toward the suite’s expansive main room. “They’re set up in the master bath.”

“The bathroom,” Farrah echoed. She resettled the dress bag over her arm and tried not to show her puzzlement. Since when were there fainting couches in bathrooms?

It was fortuitous that she saw Barrett before anyone else realized she had arrived. The black raw silk vintage gambler’s vest fit her like a glove, and tuxedo slacks were cut loosely over her slender hips.

Nobody had mentioned that Barrett wouldn’t be wearing a shirt.

For several seconds Farrah had a lightning fantasy of licking her way across Barrett’s hard-as-granite shoulders. She hoped the momentary weakness she felt didn’t show in her face because she realized that Barrett had seen her. There was no sign of Racie, thank goodness, because that tight silk vest didn’t hide the fact that Barrett’s nipples had hardened.

“I’m waiting to be coiffed and made up. What do you think so far?” She turned in a slow circle.

“Gorgeous,” Farrah said honestly. She was too breathless to say more.

“Do you need to get changed? How about the other bedroom?” Barrett led the way. “This suite is ridiculously large.”

Finding her voice, Farrah strove to match the bantering tone. “As are most things in Vegas. I feel like I should car pool just to get from one end of the hotel to the other. I feel lost in suites like these, so I usually opt for a small setup.”

Barrett turned from the door to the second bedroom. “Racie and I usually find a way to make use of the space.” Her gaze flicked to the centerpiece round sofa in the main room as she gestured an “after you” to Farrah.

It was almost impossible to shake the image of Barrett and Racie entwined in various positions on the furniture. She knew nothing about them, not really, but her imagination supplied accoutrements for Barrett and a leather bustier for Racie while her ears were filled with a full-scale orgy soundtrack.

“Do you have everything you need?” Barrett lounged in the doorway, the vest pulled tight across her chest.

“Yes, thank you,” Farrah said automatically. She clamped her mouth shut before she added, “But not everything I want.” Instead she made a show of shooing Barrett out of the doorway. “Away with you. I have to get ready.”

Barrett didn’t move. “Ready for what?” Her eyes were openly suggestive.

Farrah didn’t know where her answer came from. “Anything you’ve got.” She planted both hands on the rock hard shoulders and shoved.

Barrett faltered back a step and Farrah closed the door in her surprised face.

*

There was no point to false modesty. Farrah looked at herself in the mirror, assessing the fit and drape of the scarlet dress she’d bought to please Racie. The off-the-shoulder bodice swept forward to cup her breasts. A technological marvel of a bra lifted her bust to create cleavage where gravity had long since won. The bra had been so gorgeous she’d gotten the matching thong, not that she was going to let Racie photograph it. Tapering in at her waist, the heavy fabric flared at her hips and fell to the floor. Once she had on her shoes, it would just brush the ground. With every step, the twin slits would expose her bare legs from ankle to four or five inches above her knees.

It wasn’t her usual look, but Racie’s eye for style had been perfect. The dress was sizzling hot. She fought down a blush thinking of what it would do to Barrett’s composure. Surely Racie, of all people, would see the crackle of chemistry between them—all fine and good for the sake of the photo shoot, but when that was over Racie might have second thoughts.

She answered a knock at the door, but it was only the makeup artist. Within five minutes she even had powder on her cleavage. Her eyes went from a sweet honey brown to a smoky, sultry topaz. Twenty minutes with a hair sadist transformed her shoulder-length blond hair into a high class French knot. Alone again, Farrah looked at herself in the mirror as she clasped a strand of pearls with a deep blue pendant around her neck. Matching drop earrings completed the outfit. Well, she still had to put on the shoes. She wasn’t sure she could walk in them, so she’d wait.

The stilettos dangling from her fingertips, she took a deep breath and opened the door.

One of the groupies whistled.

Someone said, “Damn.” Then Farrah realized it was Barrett. A scarlet bow tie had been artfully tied around her bare neck, and all Farrah could think about for a moment was undoing that tie with her teeth.

“Will I do?” She tried for the happy, virginal smile that graced the back of every paperback romance she’d ever sold.

“You’ll do.” Barrett sounded hoarse. “Did you need help with those shoes?”

“No, I was waiting—it’s not—oh…” Before Farrah knew it, she was seated on the round sofa with Barrett kneeling at her feet.

The Ferragamo satin and patent stilettos were in Barrett’s hands. She slipped the left on first, one warm, strong hand cupped behind Farrah’s calf.

Her voice pitched low, she said, “You’re going to be taller than I am in these gorgeous shoes.”

“Would you rather I didn’t wear them?”

“Of course not.” She slipped the right shoe into place. “I want you to walk on me in them.”

Farrah batted her eyelashes. “I didn’t think you were into that.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?” Barrett looked up, the vest straining over her shoulders and against her taut breasts. She wasn’t smiling.

“You started without me!” Racie swept into the room, her camera already clicking. “Jesus, you two look incredibly hot. Keep talking.”

Farrah felt her cheeks stain with color. Barrett looked a little flushed too.

“Oh, you’ve both frozen up. Okay, everybody else out. There’s work to be done. You two stay put.” Racie shepherded everybody out of the suite, even the groupies who looked like they were going to faint. She flipped the safety latch on, then said, “Now it’s just us.”

Farrah wanted to ask Barrett what she’d meant, but it wasn’t appropriate. She shouldn’t be flirting. Barrett’s hand still cupped her calf and Farrah took a deep breath, wondering what Barrett would do if she shifted the toe of the pump just a little to the left.

Maybe her intention showed in her eyes, or maybe it was just the way she shifted her shoulders, but when Barrett’s jaw went slack, Farrah felt herself blush again. Femme fatales don’t blush, she told herself fiercely.

Racie was saying, “Just the three of us. Baby, lean a little closer, and Farrah, can you incline your shoulders toward her, but look over this direction? Get closer.”

“Someone said we were shooting in the bathroom.”

“That’s the cover shot,” Racie explained. Her camera clicked and whirred like a slot machine wheel. “If these turn out, they could go inside.
Vanity Fair
is going to love this look. Barrett, honey, put your tongue back in your mouth and smile a little.”

A nervous laugh escaped Farrah, and she couldn’t help but glance at Barrett.

Barrett muttered, “I’d rather put my tongue in your mouth.”

Farrah broke out in goose bumps. “Why do you think I’d let you?”

One expressive eyebrow lifted and a smile emerged at last. Still in that low, sexy voice, she answered, “Because I can smell you. You’re as turned on as I am.”

“Okay, let’s move to the bathroom where the light is set up.” Racie breezed away, scooping a second camera off a table as she went.

Barrett rose to her feet and extended a hand to Farrah. “My lady?”

Easily lifted to her feet, Farrah said, just as Barrett leaned toward her, “We can’t ruin the makeup.”