Guilty Pleasures (13 page)

Lance nodded gravely. “Okay, Serge, thanks. I’ll be here at four thirty.”

Lance gasped as Millie’s mouth slid down his throat and licked at his collarbone. Her eager lips fumbled hungrily at his nipples, followed by her serpentine tongue. Her sharp teeth nibbled at his shuddering belly, her hand grasping him firmly, pumping, guiding him toward her mouth. She engulfed him and a hot shuddering pleasure shot through him.

With a cry, Lance woke.
God, what a dream.
He flushed with embarrassment.
Shit.

A wet dream at his age?
He couldn’t remember the last time something like this had happened to him. He got up and into his third shower of the day. Flashes of the dream kept surfacing.

Millie’s hot mouth on my flesh . . .
Lance firmly dispelled the thought. He had to get over this. He was just tired. He had to face her today. He had to look at her, at her mouth, her breasts, and those soft cradling hips. He found himself hardening at the thought. Could it be that Lance Packhard, the ultimate control freak, was in lust with a client?

After an arduous workout and a steam shower, he was scrupulously clean, refreshed, shaved and blow-dried. Lance consumed his regulation carefully balanced protein/carbohydrate meal and headed back to Guilty Pleasures.

Serge was lovingly placing a thin layer of pale yellow apple slices on the bottom of a pie crust, sprinkling it with cinnamon, nutmeg, brown sugar, and the finest dusting of ground cloves.

Lance sniffed appreciatively. “Something smells good.”
 

Serge grinned up at Lance. “Afternoon, Willie. Come take a whiff at this! Now just a touch of ginger to make it snap!” He laid down a second and third layer, equally condimented, and skilfully folded cream and a dash of port into three beaten eggs. He poured the mixture over the filling, and covered the lot with a thin layer of pastry which he ornamented with fanciful shapes.

“Looks good, too,” Lance said.
 

“It’s perfection. All right, then, now that’s ready, I’ll pop it in later. Let’s go do the soup and the pudding.” Serge seemed to be in an excellent mood and scurried around the kitchen chattering happily at Lance, explaining, exclaiming, and ordering him about, all in the same breath.

At around five that afternoon, Millie tottered in shakily, wearing dark glasses and a nauseous expression. “Good afternoon, Serge, Will.” She avoided looking at Lance directly. “Did you manage to get everything?”

“Afternoon, Millie. We got it all. Now,
you
don’t look so fresh today.”

“Good afternoon, Millie,” Lance said, and found himself ignored.

“Want something to eat?” Serge chortled evilly and displayed a splendidly coloured glistening rainbow trout.
 

Millie gasped and turned slightly green. “No, thank you, Serge, I’ll stick to coffee. I hope you remembered the orchids?”

Serge nodded. “
I
remembered everything. You’ve got your flower arrangements
and
your orchids.”

Millie took a long black velvet jeweller’s case from her purse. “Don’t forget, you hide the pearls in the ice cream under the orchids, okay?” She took out a long glowing opera-length string of creamy baroque pearls strung with cabochon rubies and rose-cut diamonds, and handed it to Serge.
 

“Fancy this beauty around an old coot’s stringy neck . . .” Serge said, running the iridescent pearls through his stubby fingers.

Lance had a sudden vision of Millie sprawled naked on scarlet silk, running the glossy pearls between her lips, licking at them with her pointy pink tongue, pouring them down the succulent V between her breasts to pool invitingly at the dark mysterious juncture of her generous thighs . . . he had to get a grip. This was so not on.
 

“Excuse me, Millie, um . . .” Flushing, Lance grabbed a container with vegetable peelings and organic odds and ends. Holding it defensively at waist height, he hurried with it to the waste disposal unit, where he spent an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how the contraption worked.

Finally recovered from his momentary lapse, he casually sauntered back towards the other two, who hardly noticed him, being engrossed in a heated discussion of the relative merits of Danish Blue, Stilton, and Roquefort cheese. He cleared his throat. “Um, Serge, what do you want me to do now?”

Millie gaped at his use of the dwarf’s first name. Apparently Will had made the grade.

“Stand down, Willie. Mills, do you need him?”

Please say yes . . . oh god, yes, baby I need you bad, oohh . . .
Lance shivered.
Crap. What the hell was happening to him?

“You can help me put that damned
chaise longue
back where it belongs, Will, if you don’t mind,” she replied.

“Of course, Millie. Let’s do it.”
Oh baby, let’s do it right now. Oh, yes . . .

“Come along, then.”

Lance obediently followed her swaying, luscious rear into the salon.

They moved the purple
chaise longue
back to the small salon, and Lance helped her reorganise the room. They carried in the flower arrangements, then set the table with creamy lace and linen cloths, delicate turn-of-the-century porcelain, heavy silver cutlery, and finely chased crystal glasses.
 

Millie studiously avoided eye contact the entire time, pulling away sharply when their hands accidently touched. “Oh, Will, I wanted to say . . .” She cleared her throat nervously. “Thank you. Actually, I wanted to apologise for the inconvenience I put you through last night. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t usually drink, you see, and when I do, it plain goes to my head. I wanted to tell you I’m so very sorry.”

Lance looked her straight in the eyes.
Somewhere deep down she must be aware, she must remember something . . .
With his voice low, intimate, he replied, “Millie, I’m not sorry. Not at all.”

Millie stared up at him, eyes wide, baby-soft lips parted, as a slow wash of pink embarrassment tinted her throat and her cheeks.

The thrash-metal star’s grandmother’s birthday celebration went smoothly. Hendricks spun in and out airily, wheeling away the courses in a covered trolley.
 

Serge was calm and relaxed, leisurely ornamenting the serving platters into veritable works of art. “I learned how to do this—to vegetables, anyway—from this really sweet Thai girl I worked with in Istanbul. She was an
artiste
. She could create masterpieces with just a penknife and a basket of fruit. Of course, she had other talents, not that
I
can attest to, but the customers swore she could make their eardrums pop. She was very, very
pop
ular.”

Lance laughed delightedly.
 

Serge chortled and launched into another salacious story from his less respectable days.

After dessert, Millie walked in followed by a distinguished-looking man in his early forties. He wore an impeccably tailored grey suit, and was accompanied by a frail, but still lovely lady sporting the gorgeous pearls. “Serge, Mr. uh . . . Mr. Joe wanted to meet you.” She smiled at the man.

Serge nodded a greeting.

“This is Serge Moreno, the creative force behind Guilty Pleasures. Serge this is Mrs. Ferguson, and, uh . . .”

The man stepped up, smiling charmingly, and firmly shook Serge’s hand. “I’m Smelly Cunt Joe. I legally changed my name twenty years ago. I have to live with it. Gran and I wanted to thank you for one of the nicest meals we’ve had, Mr. Moreno.”

“It was a pleasure,” Serge said, with a wink. “And I
like
that name . . .”

The old lady shook Serge’s hand in turn. “Thank you. Thank you so much—”