Dangerous Curves 2: The Good Girl (A Billionaire and BBW erotica romance) (7 page)

Breathing heavily, I leaned against the wall, trying to regain my composure.

I waited a full ten minutes before returning to work. It took that long to ‘clean myself up’ and become presentable again.

Before stopping at my desk I popped back in the conference room to retrieve my laptop. I
keyed in the password, and then saw one last IM from Nick was waiting for me on the screen.

Nick:
Next time I’m turning it up to seven.

I was feeling a little shaken up after my unplanned orgasm. And, as luck would have it, this was the afternoon I was scheduled to meet with Darlean Donovan. Of all the days!

Fortunately, she was coming into the
Brown-Eyed Girl
offices, so at least I didn’t have to travel to meet her. Never-the-less, I still had to pull myself together in time for our interview. I’d been researching her extensively ever since Mariah first gave me the assignment, and I was more than prepared for this interview.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same thing for Darlean. She arrived forty-five minutes late and then breezed in the door without so much as an explanation or an apology.

“You must be Vivian,” Darlean said, hurrying into the conference room.

“Violet,” I corrected her.
I stood up to shake her hand. “Violet Lewis. It’s nice to meet you.”

She was even more beautiful in person than she’d appeared in her photos and DVDs. Five feet ten, with silky long red hair, and a body that would make a Victoria’s Secret model envious, Darlean Donovan was truly a si
ght to behold.

“Oh!” Her face perked up
, as she quickly returned my handshake. “That’s
right
. I’m terrible with names,” she offered, by way of explanation. She sat down at the conference table and pulled out an iPad. “I need to Facetime with my book agent while I meet with you. I’ve also go to update my Twitter feed. It’s been two hours since I posted anything.” She touched a few buttons on her iPad, and the screen sprang to life. “You don’t mind if I multi-task, do you?”

I wasn’t sure quite how to answer this, so I said, “I was kind of hoping to have your full attention for our interview.”

“Oh, hon, I’d love to help you out with that, but you know how it is. These days everybody has to multi-task. You tweet while you ride the subway, you type an e-mail while you get a massage. You know what I’m saying?”

“I’m certainly aware of
the need to multi-task, yes,” I said, forcing a smile. “But I was really hoping to get a little bit more of your attention, for at least part of the two hours we scheduled together.” I didn’t mention that she’d been forty-five minutes late to our meeting.

“I’ll do my best,” Darlean said, “but this is kind of like a working interview for me.
Same way you eat a pizza at your desk every day ‘cause you don’t have time for lunch. Am I right?”

“Actually, you’re not right,” I told her honestly. “I usually go for a walk on my lunch break. And on those occasions when I do have to eat at my desk, it’s a turkey sandwich on low-calorie wheat bread, not a pizza.”

I was telling her the truth. It bugged me to no end that people always assumed anyone with a weight problem pigged out 24/7. Sure, I splurged now and again – like the chocolate cheesecake pastry from Nick, for example. But most of the time, I worked very, very hard to maintain my less-than-admirable physique. I worked out almost every day, and I was constantly passing up food I wanted to eat, always making an effort to keep track of my calories and go for the better options. Most overweight people try far harder than you’d think to be thin.

Darlean looked me up and down. “Sure you do, hon,” she said in a tone that made my skin crawl.

“Bill!” she squealed, turning to the iPad. It looked like her Facetime had gone through. “It’s so great to hear from you! Have you got my million dollar offer yet? This will just take a sec, Violet.”

Well, at least she knew my name now.

I watched while Darlean hopped up with her iPad and trotted out into the hall. She was gone a full ten minutes before returning.

“So sorry, hon,” she said. “Where were we?”

“I was about to start our interview,” I said brightly. Stay positive, Violet, I reminded myself. This is a big story for you. It doesn’t matter how Darlean acts; just make the most of it and you’ll still get a killer story.

“So tell me what inspired you to get into the weight loss business,” I began.

She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear, and fixed me with a beauty-pageant smile. “As I’m sure you’re aware, obesity is a growing problem – pun intended – in our American culture. These days, nearly two thirds of Americans are not only overweight, but – ”

Her phone rang, cut
ting her off mid-sentence. “Hang on just one sec,” Darlean said. “This is my trainer, I have to take this.”

She disappeared back out into the hall.

So this was her idea of multi-tasking? From the looks of things, this was more like she was handling her other business while she left me waiting. During our scheduled time, no less.

This time I waited fifteen minutes before Darlean resurfaced.

“Ugh,” she said, sitting back down at the conference table. “My trainer is such a beast.”

“Is that your fitness trainer?” I asked, hoping to prompt her into talking about something that was
weight loss related.

“Oh, no!” Darlean grinned. “I don’t have one of those. I don’t need one. I mean,
look
at me.” She patted her non-existent stomach. “I’m in terrific shape as it is.”

“So you work out a lot?” I asked.

“I stay active all the time,” she enthused.

“Doing what types of activities?” I asked. “I’m sure our readers would love to know.”

“Oh, everything!” she waved her hand in the air. “I always take the stairs, every single chance I get. I’m active in every aspect of my life, pretty much all the time.”

“That’s great,” I said. “But could you be a bit more specific?”

“Such as?”

“Such as, do you ha
ve a specific exercise routine?”

“Some people don’t really need to have
an exercise routine.” Darlean patted her stomach again for emphasis. “As you can see, I have a very low percentage of body fat.”

“I can definitely see that,” I told her. “However, having low body fat doesn’t necessarily correspond to being in good shape,” I pointed out. “Some people are just naturally thin. But that doesn’t mean they’re in good shape from a cardiovascular standpoint.”

I wasn’t trying to be an asshole, but it seemed only fair that someone who had made millions dispensing diet advice should at least follow the advice they give. I’d read all of Darlean’s books, watched all of her DVD’s. And she was a big proponent of exercise. (Apparently, she just wasn’t a big
practicer
of it.)

“I have a very low BMI,” she said, dodging the question. Her phone sounded again. “Oh my goodness!” She rolled her eyes. “My trainer again. I am totally not going to take it this time.”

Something occurred to me. “I thought you said you didn’t have a fitness trainer. If you don’t mind my asking, what kind of trainer
do
you have?”

“Dog trainer,” she said.

“So it’s your dog trainer who you called a beast?” I asked, jotting it down in my reporter’s notebook. I had a tape recorder running – Darlean had agreed to let the interview be taped on the front end – but I’d been taught in journalism school to always take notes in addition to recording an interview, just in case the tape failed.

“It is,” she told me. And then, without prompting, she added, “You would not
believe
what he wants me to do.”

“Try me.”

“He actually expects me to participate in the dog training process. I told him, ‘No way!’ I’ll drop the mutts off at the beginning of the month, he can do his job like I paid him to, and then I’ll pick them up when they’re able to speak and rollover on command. Am I right?”

She wasn’t. Not really. I’d fact-checked a piece on dog training for the magazine just last month, and what Darlean was saying was a common misconception. You didn’t drop your dogs off and have someone train them for you. You attended obedience school
with
them, so the dogs could learn how to respond and obey their owner’s commands. It was a collaborative process, that involved the owner nearly every step of the way. But I didn’t see a point in explaining this to Darlean Donovan. We were already off topic enough as it was.

“What kind of food do you eat?”
I asked, getting the interview back on track.

“I eat a very balanced diet,” she said.

“Could you elaborate?”

“Fish, vegetables, fruit. I keep a strict eye on the calorie count at all times.”

“That’s interesting,” I told her. “Because I read the profile on you in the
New York Times
where you said, and I quote, ‘I’m one of those people who doesn’t have to watch what I eat. I stay skinny no matter what I do.’ So is that true? Or do you actually keep a diet log? For example, do you follow the same food plan outlined in The DarLEAN Diet?”

“Listen, hon.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I see what you’re trying to do here, and I understand where you’re coming from
, I really do. But it’s not my fault that everyone in America doesn’t have the same capabilities I do.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” I said. “However, I’m just trying to understand what qualifies you to act as a weight loss expert. You don’t have a medical degree. You’re not a nutritionist. You’re not a personal trainer, or a fitness expert – you don’t even undergo regular work-outs, as far as I can tell. You’ve never been overweight nor have you lost weight.” Despite your previous claims and faked photoshop pictures, I wanted to say. But I knew better. Instead, I said, “Are you not concerned that some people might question your credibility? Truthfully, what qualifies you to speak on these issues, considering you do not have any education, nor any personal experience, when it comes to weight loss?”

Darlean’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t need a Ph.D. to understand that the obesity crisis in America has gotten out of control.”

I nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“And, as both a taxpayer and a concerned citizen, I felt it was my duty to do something to help. I truly am passionately concerned about the
grotesque
obesity epidemic that is sweeping our nation. I cannot, in good conscience, sit back and let people ruin their health.”

“That’s very noble of you,” I said. “
But you are an admitted smoker, are you not?”

“I am not,” she said, tight-lipped.

“There have been many pictures of you appearing in places like, you know, Twitter,” I said, gesturing toward her iPad, where she’d been monitoring her Twitter feed for the last few minutes. “Smoking cigarettes.”

“I don’t understand what that has to do with me helping out in the war on obesity.”

“I just find it curious that you would spend so much time and effort fighting the obesity crisis, which you claim to be doing in the name of health. Yet, if you’re so concerned with health, why are you smoking? And why pick obesity – a subject you admittedly know nothing about – as your project? If you truly just want to help out with the health of America, there are more opportunities than just helping the overweight.”

I was really crossing a line now, and I knew it. The kinds of questions I was asking her could potentially get me fired – but on some level, I didn’t care.

Darlean Donovan might have a perfectly flat stomach, that much was true. But, by her own admission, she had done absolutely nothing to get a killer body. It was her genetics, not her lifestyle, that made her 5'10 and a size 2.

This was a pet peeve of mine, something that had bugged me for many years.

It had bugged me all throughout grade school and high school while I listened to countless fat jokes and insults, all of them backed up by the claim of, “I’m just concerned about your health.” Or, the equally absurd, “I just want to help you.”

Cruel insults did absolute
ly nothing to help a person lose weight – this was a well-documented medical fact. And as for the “I’m just concerned about your health” line? It was funny how the same people who were so concerned about the unhealthiness of overweight people rarely ever concerned themselves with
other
health issues – you didn’t find them launching anti-smoking campaigns or crusading against alcohol-induced liver problems.

Darlean leapt up from the table.

“This was a hatchet job from the moment I sat down,” she fumed. “And you can tell your boss that. If you write anything about me – even one word – you’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

And with that she stormed out of the room.

I was sitting at the table, trying to collect myself when I heard a voice say:

“Write what you want. If she has a problem with that she’ll be hearing from
my
lawyers. Plural.”

Nick!

I whirled around.  “What are you doing here?”

I was stunned to see him standing in the doorway to the conference room.

“I never left.”

“What?” I asked. “You mean you’ve been here all this time?”

He nodded.

“What for?”

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

My heart skipped a beat.