Guilty Pleasures (15 page)

Lance gave her Will’s best endearing smile. “Good morning. Where to today?”

“The flower market, please.”

What a change
. The warm, vivacious woman was replaced by her ice-cold bitch of a twin sister. Lance followed her into the market, her short buxom figure striding determinedly through the throng.

Millie stopped at a stall selling beautiful yellow tulips. She spoke to the owner, and stood stiffly with her lips clamped tightly together while he packed her order into long, white boxes.

Lance felt a sharp sting. He heard himself cry out in alarm and swatted at his neck. Nauseating waves of pain pulsed out from a hot place on his neck. Something squirming and furry fell at his feet.

“A bee!” The stall owner gazed at him in sudden concern. “Quickly, man, are you allergic?”

“No, no . . . God, that
hurts!
”

Millie was next to him; her face seemed blurred by the pain. “Lean down so I can take a look, Will.”

Lance placed his hands flat on the stall counter and bent down.

“No wonder!” she exclaimed. “The stinger and the poison gland are still attached. Don’t move.” Her quick fingers plucked at something, and then incredibly, her hot mouth was at his neck. She sucked at his neck, then spat with unladylike precision, and bent to him again.
 

Lance shuddered at the combination of the stinging pain and the rousing sensation of her wet sucking mouth on his skin.
 

She spat again. “That should get the worse of it out.” She addressed the hovering man. “Do you have some ice?”

“Yes, for the flowers! Let me go get you some!”

“Thanks. That would really help.” The man hurried off, and Millie turned to Lance. “Are you wearing aftershave or some scent?”
 

The helpful man came back and handed her a clump of ice wrapped in a white cloth.
 

Millie took the cloth and pressed it to Lance’s neck. “That’s what usually sets them off.”
 

“No, nothing. Just bad luck, I guess.”

“You’re sure?” Millie asked.

Lance nodded, groaning with relief as the ice dulled the throbbing heat of the sting.
 

Millie waved good-bye to the flower merchant and they continued walking through the market.
 

With the long boxes tucked under one arm, and his free hand holding the ice to his excruciatingly painful neck, Lance followed Millie back to the van.
Not bad luck at all.
Lance had felt her breath quicken at his closeness, at the smell of him.
Thank you, little bee.
Luck was definitely on his side.

“What a morning!” Millie said to Horse as she walked into the house and locked the door behind her. “Time for Mummy’s midmorning nap, baby.” She yawned, and stroked the dog’s gigantic head tenderly.
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

This morning, Will was stung by a bee at the flower market. It seemed to be quite painful. I had to suck out the poison.
 

Can’t blame the poor little thing. He did smell quite delicious, and his skin tasted so good. I had to stop myself from licking him. I wanted to press my nose to his throat and just breathe him in, bite at him.

There is something about him that is very appealing. I really must curtail my contact with this man. I can’t punish Will for my weakness.
 

I’ve been alone for too long. I thought I’d be immune to desire, and here I am, getting wet and bothered for sucking out a little poison! Maybe Serge is right. I do need a life.

In other news, we’ve got a small dinner for nine tonight. John Hubbert Roberts, the songwriter-composer, is having his fifty-seventh birthday dinner with his wife, two exes, and his five children, the youngest of whom is four. They asked for Italian food, or whatever we felt like serving.

They should all be so easy.

Chapter 11

Dance with her. Slow dancing is very, very erotic. Take her hands and pull her into your arms, slide your hands around her body, and embrace her. Pull her against you gently, while caressing her waist with your thumbs.

Do not grab her buttocks and squeeze. Do not grind your pelvis into hers.

Let her define the level of closeness most comfortable for her.

Let her feel the warmth of your body; synchronize your movements to hers.

Use the proximity to stir the fine hairs on her temples with your breath.

Do not huff and puff. You are not the big bad wolf.

Be aware that any halitosis problem you might have will be very apparent at this stage.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

After the morning shopping, Lance arrived home with a sore neck and a buzzing headache. Still, it was a small price to pay.
 

He was right. The right scent combined with physical closeness was the trigger for Millie’s arousal. He found himself recalling the touch of her mouth, the gentleness of her fingers on his neck. An unexpected tenderness flooded through him. He took a deep breath and banished the image of her sweet round face clouded with concern. Concern for him, for Will. It was a lie.
 

Lance had breakfast, took an aspirin to dull the ache in his neck and logged on to check his e-mail. There were several contacts from prospective clients. Both his mother and Jane De Mondio had sent e-mails wanting to know how he was. His furious ghostwriter sent a long rant complaining about closing deadlines, and George sent him a brief message advising him that the wedding reception would be at nine in the evening on the seventeenth at Guilty Pleasures, period costume recommended.

Period costume? What the hell? Wait . . . this had real possibilities.
Millie would surely never recognise him in a handlebar mustache and lamb-chop sideburns. It was a great idea.

He’d go as Arsène Lupin, thief of hearts.
Or maybe, would it be presumptuous?
The iconic, inimitable Sherlock Holmes.
 

Yes. Sherlock.
A detective after his own heart—except for that little problem with the cocaine—and the very man to perpetuate, as well as unveil, a mystery. He searched the Internet for a costumier and made an appointment for Monday. He could already see it—suit and cape—custom-made and dashing. He’d ask Jane for the contact of a really good makeup expert. With the right facial hair and a little attitude, he’d be unrecognisable.

He’d tell Millie he needed the night off.
Gran’s birthday? Yes, why not?
He’d be like Cinderella, going to the ball, only with a meerschaum instead of crystal slippers. Humming to himself, Lance headed for bed and, hopefully, some rest. He needed it, to get through the gruelling pace Serge set at work.

She stood in the shadows, still as a cat, her presence betrayed only by the gleam of her eyes.
 

“Who’s there?” Lance raised himself on one elbow and tried to clear his head. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Want? You know what I want.” She moved forward and the light caught the curve of her cheek and painted a shadow under her pouting lower lip, outlined her nipples and accentuated the provocative curve of her hips. “I came for what’s mine. I came for you, so maybe you can
come
for me.” She laughed. “Would you like that?”

“Yes.” Lance lay frozen on the bed, like a mouse watching the closing cat in an ecstasy of terror and lust.
 

She shifted onto the bed, hissing, moving with feline grace onto her hands and knees. “Show me . . . show me . . .”

Wordlessly Lance threw back the sheet to expose his throbbing erection.
 

“Ah . . .” She was straddling him, gripping him in both hands, slowly lowering herself onto his cock. Lance felt her wetness envelop him, grip him. She threw back her head and cried out hoarsely. She leaned over him, riding him, squeezing him, driving him beyond all endurance. Lance felt a tremor in her innermost flesh, a spasm that threw him over the edge panting.
 

Lance gasped awake, lying on the floor, the sheets entwined with his legs, ice-cold and trembling in ecstasy. His dreams featured an increasingly bold Millie, aggressive in her sexuality.
 

His own passivity in the dream surprised him. He frowned. Not since Caroline had he been seduced, helpless in mingled timidity and lust. He wasn’t a fumbling youth anymore. Twenty years divided him from Caroline’s more than willing toy. He’d given her his undivided heart, unaware, as she must surely have been, of the ephemeral nature of their relationship.
 

He’d traded her pleasure—striving to please, to take her ever further—in exchange for tenderness, affection, love. But the dream Millie displayed a subtle anger, a hunger for domination alien to her nature. Was it a reflection of
his
desire? Did he
want
to return to a subservient role in a sexual relationship?
 

Caroline and Millie. It disturbed him to find himself comparing these two women. One had given herself over to a hedonistic search for her own pleasure without counting the costs. The other was self-denying to a ridiculous extent, exerting an ironclad control over her own desires; a control he was deliberately undermining. Would he be able to handle the fallout when that control shattered?

Lance, liberally anointed with vanilla essence, found Guilty Pleasures in an uproar. Serge screamed in the kitchen, and Millie shouted in alarm as a gleaming grand piano was hoisted from the street through the window of the salon.