Guilty Pleasures (38 page)

Millie and the girls peeked in and called Lance out.

“Come on, Will, let’s leave them to it. They’ll be here all night, believe me.”

“Oh yes, Daddy loves this. He adores Serge.”

“Yes, but let’s leave before they start singing “Lara’s Theme” from
Dr. Zhivago
, okay?”

“Come along, girls. Bye, dear Millie, thank you ever so much.”

“You’re welcome, girls, and thank
you
.”

The Pavlonovitch girls walked happily down the stairs.

Millie turned to Lance with an engaging smile. “So, dear Will, are you wearing those green hose?”

“Hose? Were you serious?”

“Very, very serious. You don’t get to come home with me unless you come in hose.”

Lance shivered, caught between trepidation and anticipation. What was he letting himself in for?

After tiptoeing to the bathroom in the middle of the night, Millie couldn’t resist writing her thoughts down. Wicked smiling and very satisfied, she opened her diary to a new page.
 

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Wow! Will looks great in the green hose. They highlight his best features in the most delightful, appetising way. They really enhance his strong points.
 

It
is
strong and it
does
point! Ha! Ha! I peeled them off him with my pearly whites. There was a little incident when I nipped at more than just the Lycra, but he bore up quite well and practically didn’t cry.

I’m loving this. I want more. I’m going to let him sleep another half an hour, then I think I’ll nibble him awake.

Yum.

Chapter 30

Never comment on any
improvement
in anything but a positive, upbeat tone.

If she spent thousands—cash and hours—working on her hips/backside/upper arms, do
not
say
you can’t tell the difference
!

Instead comment on the fact you don’t know
what
she did, but it really turns you on! Proceed to the bedroom and show her how much.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Lance woke to a delicious sensation. He was being nibbled at by sharp, little teeth slowly making their way up his inner thighs. He groaned. She was definitely making up for lost time. Lance gasped as Millie reached her ultimate goal.
 

God help him, how would he survive her reawakened libido?

Much later, with a pink and tousled Millie tucked firmly under his arm, Lance traded the lighter moments from his childhood—sneaking away to mischief with George, his grandfather’s tall tales, his vague recollections of his long dead father—in exchange for her own memories. Hers all centred, somehow, around her father and the kitchen. They were fabulous stories she wove into the air, summoning imagery from strange and exotic places. Much of the night they spent in a soft haze of murmurs and caresses.

After a quick breakfast of coffee and toast, Millie, bubbly and energetic, quickly outlined their morning activities. First, the morning’s shopping for the baby shower had to be done. It was scheduled for five in the afternoon and consisted mostly of lots of chocolate cake, pies, muffins, scones, dainty sandwiches, and tea.

“We’ll be done by seven. That means we’ll have the evening totally free. Unless, of course, you have other plans?”

“I’m all yours, babe. What do you want to do?” Lance asked.

“Don’t laugh, but I haven’t been to a carnival in thirty years. What do you say we go relive our lost childhood, junk food and all? We can take a ride in the big wheel, then come back here for some very adult entertainment?”

“Sounds very good.” Lance reached across and pulled her close. He kissed her thoroughly, then picked up the car keys and escorted her to the front door. “Let's go. We have lots to do and you sit here kissing the help?”

Back at Guilty Pleasures, they found Serge already manning the stove and the ovens. He was wearing dark glasses and a permanent wince. His usually glossy dark skin was a dry, papery grey. His hands shook, and his normally boisterous manner was strangely subdued.

“Morning, Serge!” Lance cried.

Serge winced.

“So, Serge, how did it go?” Millie asked.

He groaned. “Please, Millie . . . speak softly.”
 

“Oh, my! I can see the battle was long and bitter. So who won the Cold War?” Millie asked with an evil smile.

“That peasant has no stamina. None. I drank him under the table. My father’s honour is upheld.”

“Serge dear, I very much doubt you were capable of holding anything up. Did you call him a taxi?”

“No. He’s sleeping it off on your
chaise longue
. I think he puked.”

“Serge, really . . . those girls will be so worried.” She took out her cell and hurried toward the small salon. She came back looking relieved. “He’s still asleep, and he did not puke, at least not on my
chaise longue
. Vera is picking him up in an hour. They were frantic with worry.”

“Well, serves them right for having such a piss-poor excuse for a father.”

“Go do your work, Serge Moreno, or I will start singing . . . opera.”

At two that afternoon, the decorator arrived along with a cleaning crew.
 

Millie was in a flurry—here, there, everywhere.

Lance couldn’t believe the transformation. Huge, seven-foot tall stuffed toys—all white with pink gingham bows—lined the walls. There was a bear, a rabbit, a kangaroo, a tiger, a cat, and an elephant each holding a huge bundle of pink and white balloons. Broad pink and white satin ribbons radiated from the chandelier to the four corners of the room. A white piano held a huge basket of pink roses, and a round table with a pink gingham underskirt and a snow-white table cloth was set for tea.
 

Millie’s decorator had set out a pretty white tea set decorated with pink polka dots, and pink linen napkins trimmed with snow white broderie anglaise and pink ribbon. The buffet table was covered in pink, festooned with white bows, and had a huge white stork with open wings holding a pink gingham bundle in its yellow beak.

Hendricks set out apple, crème-caramel, banana cream, and pecan pies, a nut strudel, a splendid chocolate cake, muffins, and scones. He laid out lots of little silver dishes filled with tiny cupcakes frosted in pink, white, and silver.

He prepared large labelled teapots for the teas and tisanes, and a silver bowl with sugar cubes and accompanying tongs. The sandwiches, Serge had explained, would be made at the last moment for maximum freshness.

All was in readiness by four thirty, when a pretty dark girl in jeans and a rose T-shirt, carrying a gym bag and sporting an eight-month belly, rushed in calling for Millie. “Millie, one of those paparazzos followed me. I think he’s coming up the stairs.”

“Calm down, S. I’ll sort it out, come along.”

Millie herded her into the kitchen and called for Hendricks.

“Mr. Hendricks, a paparazzo followed Miss S. right into the salon. Would you be so kind as to deal with it?”

Hendricks rushed into the locker room and came out brandishing a cavalry sabre with a decidedly martial gleam in his eye.
 

“Will, please accompany Mr. Hendricks, and be discreet, you two.”

In the salon, a hefty, oily man in a chequered sports shirt with a large camera was feverishly photographing the decorations and muttering to himself. He snapped avidly at the stork, then stuffed a handful of the dainty pink cupcakes in his mouth.