Книга - Bombshell

Bombshell
Jody Gehrman


There should be a four-letter word for beauty.She has more shoes than Sarah Jessica Parker and a skin-care system that could make Madonna swoon, but unlike her celebrity counterparts, Grace Noonan doesn't have it all. Her latest utterly-eligible-yet-maddeningly-unavailable boyfriend has just revealed that having sex with her is one thing and having babies quite another, forcing Grace to move on–again. And now that her employer–a top cosmetics company once devoted to "beauty beyond thirty"–is pursuing a teenaged supermodel as its future face, this thirty-four-year-old marketing exec is starting to wonder if she is going to get it all before the closing credits. Could it be time for Grace to back out of the beauty race and trade the singles scene for the sperm bank? Or is there something even this savvy bombshell has yet to discover about life and love in New York City?







Copywriter Ruby Sugars is in a rut. Her life consists of the following: long hours, boring neutral colors and regular fat-shaming from her stick insect–looking boss. But Ruby isn’t really a Bland Betty—she’s a complete Bettie Page hottie, with an enviable collection of vintage couture and very naughty vixen lingerie. Now if only she could channel that girl into her real life…

Cue Ruby’s best friend, whose recent fixation is “fantasy matchmaking.” She’s decided that all Ruby needs is one night with a sexy, delectable man—one with a serious thing for curvy pinup girls. And “Lancer” is hot enough to make any girl’s fantasy come true.

For one night, it’s pure, X-rated hotness. But come the next morning, this brand-spankin’-new bombshell will get the shock of her life when the man she vowed to see only once shows up again…as her new boss.
















Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women



Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)


For Natasha, Gretchen and Terena, who encouraged me to fill this story with juicy details.


Dear Reader,

When I first heard about Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon, I perked up. They were looking for fun, fearless heroines who were career-focused, sexy and adventurous.

I taped their requirements to my wall. I wanted to write that story. I wanted to live that story!

When Ruby Sugars first presented herself to me as a potential heroine, I was skeptical. She had issues. Her confidence was at an all-time low. She had trouble standing up to her control-freak boss. She didn’t even look like your typical ingenue, with curves that would submit to no pair of Spanx.

Then she told me about her secret self—her inner bombshell. She showed me her collection of 1950s-inspired lingerie. Just as I started to reconsider, she went in for the kill—she introduced me to the guy she’d fallen for, the Irish mystery man with a pinup-girl fetish.

I decided we had to tell her story, Ruby and I. We had to battle her demons and jack up her confidence; most of all, we had to bring her mystery man to his knees.

Ruby’s transformation from shrinking violet to bold adventuress has inspired me to take more chances—like publishing my first erotic novella, for example. I hope Ruby’s story inspires you, too, whether that means reading more sexy fiction, applying for that new job or jetting off to Paris for a week of shameless hedonism.

Thanks for reading!


Bombshell

Jody Gehrman




Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)


Contents

Chapter One (#u83bd5b64-3687-51f9-9ac4-0a5183fe0f74)

Chapter Two (#uc488388f-3fea-53ec-86c9-8d5150a366ee)

Chapter Three (#u1fee079a-7f42-526b-89a4-3208e1f13429)

Chapter Four (#u6e68b584-3917-5696-aabe-034bdd814c28)

Chapter Five (#u082912ce-8b44-5850-9e23-020e9a2d4c32)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Reply All

I’m sitting at my desk, sipping my second vanilla latte, when my world tumbles wildly out of control. Carrie Hoban and Matt Clark sneak covert glances at me as they pass my cubicle, sniggering. I glance down at my blouse, wondering if I dribbled salad dressing at lunch. More titters erupt throughout the offices of Wright, Milton and Sykes. Don’t panic, I tell myself. It’s probably got nothing to do with you. Still, I fish my compact from my purse for a quick, furtive glance. I confirm: no spinach between my teeth, no latte mustache. As I take another sip of coffee, though, I hear Dylan Mackintosh’s braying laugh explode from the far corner of the office and my heart starts to pound.

Something’s wrong.

But what?

Dylan swaggers over. He’s got that walk, the athlete’s strut. Since time began, that walk has struck fear in the hearts of girls like me—big girls who have put up with fat-chick jokes from elementary school on. The sight of his lightly tanned face looming near my cubicle invokes a primal instinct, the gazelle’s urge to flee from the lion.

His eyebrows arch so high they’re in danger of escaping into his hairline. “Loved that photo, Ruby. Pretty kinky.”

“What are you talking about?” Fear makes my voice squeaky and barely audible.

He leers. “Very Bettie Page.”

“Wait—what?” I’m really not this stupid, but panic has made my tongue grow three sizes; I can barely form words.

“Felicity’s going to love it.” He glances at his watch. “She’ll be back in ten minutes, tops.”

As he saunters off, exchanging fist bumps with Luke Neal, I turn to my computer. For a second, I feel so sick I can hardly see. My vision swims and the floor of our fifth-story office roils beneath me like the deck of a ship. Email.Felicity.Kinky. Oh god. No! Noooooo!

With trembling fingers, I open my sent mail. Yes. Oh, fuck. There it is. The email I intended to forward to by best friend Wanda. Except I didn’t hit Forward. Instead, I hit Reply All.

Reply fucking all!



From: Felicity Franco

To: Creative

Sent: Friday, January 4, 10:15 a.m.

Subject: Colin Wright’s Visit



Heads up, folks: Colin Wright will be visiting from the New York office Monday, January 14. This presents an exciting opportunity to impress a founding member of this amazing company. I want to be sure everyone pulls together to show him what a top-notch professional team we have out here in San Francisco. I know you won’t let me down.



Yours,

Felicity



From: Ruby Sugars

To: Creative

Sent: Monday, January 4th, 1:30 p.m.

Subject: RE Colin Wright’s Visit



The latest missive from The Stick. You know “top-notch professional team” is Stick speak for “everyone lose twenty pounds and get Botox.” Think I’ll show up Monday in this.



I’d attached a picture Wanda took of me during her “fantasy photography” phase last summer. She wanted to start her own studio, and she’d employed me as her guinea pig. We’d taken it one Saturday night well into our second shaker of martinis. Dylan’s Bettie Page comment was spot-on; that’s exactly what we were going for. My thick, dark hair was cut in Bettie’s trademark severe bangs, and the black satin corset strained to contain my D-cup cleavage. The garter belt, thigh-high silk stockings, long satin gloves and patent leather pumps gave it that retro pinup girl flavor, but the pièce de résistance was the leather riding crop I held above my head, dominatrix style.

My hand flies from the keyboard to my mouth. I feel my stomach lurch, and the pasta salad I ate for lunch threatens an encore. This stupid message went to everyone on the creative team—all twenty-five of us! By now it’s no doubt been forwarded to everyone else who works here.

Simon Tork, my art director, leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Honey, if I liked girls I just might fall in love.”

More titters and guffaws ripple across the office. I have to think fast. I look at the clock. Seven minutes till two. My boss Felicity, aka The Stick, always returns to her desk by two. Assuming she didn’t check her phone during lunch, there’s still the narrowest chance I can save my job.

It’s a long shot, but I have to try.

Launching myself from my desk, I ignore the laughter and catcalls all around me and pound up the stairs to IT. It’s mostly guys up there, and they all stare openly as I sprint for Gopal’s desk.

“Did you see it?” I pant without preamble.

His dark eyes meet mine, puzzled. “See what?”

“I sent an email.” I pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I meant to send it to my friend Wanda, but I must have gotten distracted and hit Reply All instead. Oh god, she’ll fire me. She’s been looking for an excuse. Please, you’ve got to help!”

“Calm down.” His face scrunches up with concern. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t—”

“I’m serious! This is an emergency. I’m doomed.”

He turns to his computer screen. In a low voice he says, “What do you need me to do?”

I look around, aware now that stealth is called for. There’s a chair near his desk and I yank it closer, lowering my own voice to match his. “Can you delete it?”

“I can’t hide it from those who have seen it.”

I look at my watch: 1:55. “Please! She’ll be here any second.”

He bites his lip, his face conflicted. I’m asking him to do something that could get him fired. It’s highly unlikely—Gopal’s too good to be expendable—but it’s possible. I know it’s selfish of me, but I figure he’s got about a 9 percent chance of losing his job over this. I, on the other hand, have at least a 99.9 percent chance of losing mine if Felicity sees that email in the next five—no, four—minutes.

I implore him with my eyes.

He sighs and spins in his swivel chair to face his screen. His fingers fly over the keyboard. He squints. He mutters to himself. I hold my breath. Finally, at 1:58 p.m., I see the beautiful glowing words on his screen: Are you sure you want to delete this message from the server?

He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “You owe me, Sugars.”

“I know! Forever!”

He hits a couple more keys, and the screen says Message deleted.

“You’re the best!”

“Mmm-hmm,” he agrees. “I expect a steady supply of gratitude for the rest of my life.”

“You’ve got it.”

* * *

When I get back downstairs, Felicity’s just stepping out of the elevator. Her sleek, closely-cropped hair sits like a dark helmet on her head—not a single strand out of place. Her navy skirt hugs her slim hips and her cream silk blouse is immaculately pressed. Her brown eyes meet mine; the pencil-thin eyebrows pull together as she frowns. No creases appear, though. She’s in her early thirties, tops, but she gets so much Botox her face is as smooth and plastic as a Barbie doll’s.

“Ah, Ruby. You’re here. Can I have a word, please?”

My heart, which is still running laps inside my rib cage, takes a flying leap for my throat. “Sure. Right now?”

She gives me a smile so cold it freezes my blood.

I manage to mumble, “Always have time for you.”

“Great.” She marches toward her office as I trail along in her wake.

Navigating the desks of the various copywriters, graphic designers, art directors and copyeditors, several snorts of muffled laughter reach my ears. Felicity stops, nostrils flaring. She’s obviously noticed, too. She looks at Dylan, who has just managed to bite back a guffaw.

“Something funny?” Her bird-like eyes search his face.

Dylan nudges Matt, who pretends to be engrossed in a report. “No! Nothing’s funny.”

Felicity turns to me, studies me briefly, then shrugs and glances back at Dylan. “Production meeting in an hour.”

“Roger that,” Dylan replies.

As she ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I try to get my sweat glands under control. My pulse is still racing, and I can feel big wet patches of perspiration soaking through my blouse. If there’s one thing Felicity can’t stand, it’s sloppiness. If she had her way, the entire world would be as sleek, cold and modern as her office, which resembles a futuristic Swedish hospital. Sitting in her deeply uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair, I’m terrified I’ll sweat on the flawless suede.

“I suppose you got my email?”

I squirm, then force myself to sit still. “About Colin Wright’s visit?”

“Yes.” She studies me for a long moment. Did she see my reply? Maybe she checked her phone at lunch. Please, god, no. “You feel okay?”

“Of course!” I chirp. “Why do you ask?”

“You look a little feverish.” She reaches into her drawer and hands me a Kleenex. For a second I assume she’s anticipating an outburst. Here comes the ax. But then I see she’s gesturing, almost imperceptibly, at my forehead, and I realize I’m supposed to use the tissue to mop up my sweat. Lord, can this day get any more humiliating?

“Thanks.” I dab at my forehead, then wad the Kleenex into a ball.

“So, about Colin’s visit. I just want to make sure you understand how essential it is that we present a modern, streamlined image.” Her eyes travel over my body as I try to get comfortable in the tiny space-age chair. I feel like a hippo stuffed into a hatbox.

“Oh. Right.” I glance down self-consciously. Nobody on the planet makes me feel as fat and powerless as The Stick. It’s her superpower; one glance from those hard, sparkly eyes turns me into an obese, inbred deaf-mute.

“This business is all about image.” She grins, her facial muscles straining against their Botox restraints. “I just want to show Colin how on-trend we are. That makes sense, right?”

I nod, staring at my lap.

“I’ve started taking the most invigorating Pilates class.” She says it briskly, as if changing the subject. “Amazing how much it works the core.”

Am I paranoid, or is she actually glaring at my stomach? I suck in my belly and hold my breath, torn between mortification and fury.

I’m the lump in her porridge, the wrong sized cog in her machine. Over the past couple of years she’s assembled a creative team of skinny, fit, cosmetically perfect automatons. They’re members of her cult—they worship clean lines, motionless hair, perfect skin and bland ideas. She would have fired me long ago, except I’m the best copywriter she has. My inability to fit in with her twisted little vision of corporate perfection pisses her off every time she looks at me.

“Excellent!” She stands, signaling the end to our little chat.

As I make my way back to my desk, Simon looks up. “You fired yet, sweetheart?”

“Not yet,” I breathe.

But I knock on wood, just to be safe.


Chapter Two

Happy Hour

Wanda studies me over the rim of her martini glass. “So you dodged The Stick’s wrath. So what? She’s destroying your self-esteem. You know that, right?”

“Can you please not snatch my last shred of dignity?” I’m slurring my words and licking sauce from my fingers, so my dignity is out the window anyway. We’re lounging in a booth at Jo-Jo’s, our favorite happy-hour spot. It’s right near my work, which comes in handy on days like today, when it’s all I can do to stagger across the street and collapse into Jo-Jo’s shadowy depths. Between us sits a platter piled high with chicken bones. Wanda took one look at my face and insisted on a double order. She firmly believes any sorrow can be borne if you have enough gin and extra-spicy buffalo chicken wings.

“The bad-ass sex kitten in that picture is who you really are.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder and widens her eyes at me. “The Stick’s fat phobia is turning you into someone you’re not.”

“Every single woman in our department’s a size two, and the guys are all jocks. That’s what she sees as ‘modern’ and ‘on trend.’”

Her bracelets jangle as she plucks a celery stick from the carnage before us. “She’s a skinny little fascist. Pure and simple.”

She has a point. But then, Wanda gets to be whatever she feels like; she never has to dress for somebody else’s notion of success. She’s got a trust fund, after all. I take in my best friend, feeling affectionate on my two-martini buzz. Her long blond hair is styled to look like she just went surfing, though I know she spends a fortune to achieve those careless beachy waves. Her blue-green eyes are set off with pale glittery makeup, and her outfit is an offbeat mix of upscale designer pieces set off with funky bohemian secondhand finds. Wanda Duffy sparkles. That’s the only way to describe her. She sparkled the day I met her at UC Santa Cruz, when I was stitching costumes for a student play she was in. She sparkles now, a decade later, even while destroying a celery stick with unladylike chomps, her jaw working with bovine determination.

“I hope you realize,” she goes on, “that until you stop trying to please that horrible woman, you’re going to be miserable.”

“Some of us have rent to pay.”

She tilts her head and fixes me with a “girl, please” look. “That’s a suck-ass excuse and you know it. You could run your own agency by now. You don’t need The Stick. She needs you.”

“I’m touched by your confidence in me, but—”

“Don’t be touched! Just believe me for once.”

I give her a weary look, and she changes the subject. Like all best friends, she knows when to give it a rest.

“Anyway, speaking of work, I have an announcement to make.”

I sip my drink and nod encouragement.

“I’ve finally found my calling: fantasy matchmaker.” She looks incredibly pleased with herself.

Though the Duffy fortune ensures Wanda will never have to work, she’s obsessed with finding a worthwhile vocation. Her worst fear is turning into her mother, whose idea of a hard day’s work involves shopping on Melrose and sushi with the girls. Of course, Wanda’s not pedestrian enough to go out and apply for a job that already exists. Instead she’s forever inventing new careers, most of which lose their shine after a few weeks, at which point she discards them without comment in favor of some new pursuit.

My eyebrows arch. “Okay. Fantasy matchmaker. Explain.”

“You remember Mimi Foster, Sarah Copeland’s cousin? Anyway, I had this fascinating conversation with her at a party last week about how much she loves dressing up in anime costumes and getting spanked. Needless to say, she was wasted.”

“Random,” I comment.

“People have a right to their proclivities,” she tells me with a pious air. “Anyway, the next night I met this banker dude at another party, and guess what he just happens to mention?”

“Don’t tell me—he likes getting spanked, too.”

“Not getting spanked,” she corrects, “He likes to spank. And he happens to have a thing for hentai.”

“Which is?”

“Japanese porn—but like, comic-book porn.” She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to get off track. “So I fixed him up with Mimi and kapow! They hit it off.” Kapow is one of Wanda’s favorite words. God knows why.

“A relationship based on comic-book porn?” I can’t help looking skeptical.

She downs the rest of her drink and signals the waiter for another round. “Okay, so they might not live happily ever after, but they had an amazing night together. And it got me thinking: all these matchmaking websites, they focus on compatibility in the most conventional sense—you know, like hobbies, religious beliefs, income levels. They don’t even touch on the most powerful factor of all.” She pauses, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Which is...?” I prompt obediently.

“Your secret self. Your fantasies. The dirty little wish list you don’t dare type into a form on eHarmony. When your fetish matches his, that’s a powerful bond. I consider it a public service.” She squints at me with a sly, conniving look. “And you’re going to be my first big project.”

“Oh, no! Come on. Again?” I’m forever Wanda’s test subject, as evidenced by the “fantasy photography” session last summer. Admittedly, I got some ego-boosting shots out of that, one of which is now indelibly burned into the dirty little minds of my coworkers. God. How will I face everyone Monday?

The waiter brings us another round, which I resolve to sip very slowly for once.

Wanda drains half her glass and leans toward me, her turquoise eyes a little bloodshot and dead serious, all the more so because she’s tipsy. “You need to let your inner minx out.”

“My ‘inner minx’?” I repeat, my tone dubious.

“Yes!” She bangs her fist on the table so hard the platter jumps, scattering a couple of bones. “You’ve got a bombshell inside you begging to be unleashed. Until you let her out, you’ll be stuck.”

“Whatever you say, Sparkle.” I use her nickname in the hopes of diffusing some of her intensity. People around us are starting to stare.

“I intend to unstick you.” She looks determined, but her credibility is slightly compromised by the streak of ranch dressing in her hair.


Chapter Three

Window Dressing

That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, obsessing. Everyone at work saw that nasty picture of me, legs spread in a wide, domineering stance, my hand gripping the riding crop above my head, my nipples practically visible as the corset pushes my breasts up, forcing them so high they nearly spill over. I recall the way Dylan’s eyes dipped down to my cleavage when he came over to give me shit about it, the thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he leered.

It’s not as if I’m all that concerned about what Dylan Mackintosh thinks of me. I don’t even respect him; why should I care if he thinks I’m a slut?

That’s when it occurs to me: I’m not lying awake because I’m worried about my reputation. I’m lying awake because I’ve inadvertently awakened the bad girl in that picture. In spite of the person I’ve become for work, the pathetic office drone who tries to please Felicity at any cost, there’s still another me alive and well. A retro sex kitten. An old-fashioned vixen.

And she’s stirring.

I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Nero, my cat, opens one eye and glares at me from where he lies half-buried under the duvet. He’s named after Nero Wolfe, the grouchy, obese detective from Rex Stout’s mysteries. The resemblance is striking; like his namesake, my Nero is about twice the size of a normal cat. He’s also cantankerous, condescending and brilliant. Unlike the detective, though, who dines on only the finest culinary masterpieces, my Nero is a crazed omnivore. He’ll eat anything: banana peels, coffee grounds, plastic bags. I bought the cutest bonsai tree last month, but he chewed it down to a nub. Now he follows me to the kitchen, paunch swinging, and blinks up at me as I make myself a mug of chamomile.

“I’m jonesing for a cigarette,” I whine. Nero looks back at me as if to say Give me some kibble and we’ll talk.

I smoked in college, quit a few years ago; it had to be done, though I still miss cigarettes like a lover I can’t quite get over. My nana died of lung cancer the year I graduated from college, and after that I was filled with self-loathing every time I lit up, so I forced myself to quit. Now all my drawers and purses carry an arsenal of nicotine gum. I pop a piece in my mouth, even though it doesn’t exactly go with chamomile.

The fog’s rolled in and I feel a draft, so I go to my closet for another layer. Flinging open the doors I’m struck by how segregated it is. On one side there’s my work wardrobe. Everything in that clump is boring and bland. Felicity’s given me such a complex about my failure to fit into a size two, my work clothes now operate as a kind of camouflage. I’m an elephant among tigers and panthers. My best bet for survival is to blend in with the furniture. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obese, but I’m buxom. I’ve got a huge rack and hips you could land helicopters on. I flip through my work clothes listlessly. Just looking at that side of the closet makes me feel a little sick.

And then there’s my other wardrobe—my secret wardrobe. Most of the clothes in that side of the closet I inherited from my nana. She pretty much raised me. Mom got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and she was totally unprepared for a kid. Dad was never in the picture. So Nana brought me up, and though she was hardly a conventional parent, she did her best. She was a nightclub singer in her youth, a feisty vixen who didn’t get married until late in life—thirty-four, which was “last call” for her generation. She always had a cigarette burning in one hand and a story about the good old days spilling from her lips—some yarn about a gangster she used to date, or a movie star who sent her flowers back in 1958. I loved her. She was colorful, eccentric and just a bit crazy. In the end she became a wheezing ghost of her former self, but I try not to remember her that way. I prefer to imagine her in her youth sporting sequins, red lipstick and Chanel No. 5.

Looking at the clothes crammed into the left side of my closet, I sigh with pleasure. There are emerald-green wiggle dresses, red satin cocktail shifts, blue velvet swing coats and luxurious fur stoles. Elaborate hats made of beaver and trimmed with ostrich feathers sit inside pink striped hatboxes. Dainty kitten heels and patent leather spectator pumps sit side by side on the floor. This is who I am inside. These are the colors and the fabrics that spin through my dreams. I’m built just like nana, and in her day she was the bomb.

I open my underwear drawer and pull out the lingerie I wore for Wanda’s photo shoot. On a whim, I decide to put it on. Nero watches with a dubious expression as I shuck off my frumpy pj’s and don the sleek black Bettie Page gear. It’s funny how 1950s’ style underwear, high-waisted and granny-ish, can be so much sexier than a thong or bikini in the right context. This pair is made of amazing black figure-slimming fabric, satiny to the touch but steely in its ability to firm up flab. The second I pull them on I feel tingly, alive. Slowly, I do up the corset, sucking in my breath as I cinch it tight. Lastly, I pull on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, hook them to the garters and slip into Nana’s patent leather spectator pumps.

I survey myself in the mirror, pushing my dark hair forward, finger-combing my bangs. My reflection stares back with mischievous eyes. I admire the exaggerated hourglass lines of my figure, the fullness of my breasts hoisted up by the gravity-defying corset.

“Va-va-voom,” I whisper.

In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me and spin around, startled. There’s a man standing on the balcony across the street. He’s draped in shadows. I can just make out his silhouette and the burning orange tip of his cigarette.

He’s smoking, the lucky bastard.

I go to close my curtains, but hesitate. As I stand there before the window, my breath fogging the glass, something happens. I know he can see me, know he’s taking in my bad-ass curves, my stockings, my creamy cleavage. For a moment I’m reminded of the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the whores display themselves in the windows, tempting potential customers with provocative poses and smoldering looks. I’m surprised at how much the thought of being that whore turns me on.

Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up and run my fingers through my hair. The luxurious feel of silky strands between my fingers sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I glance back at the shadowy figure on the balcony. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the railing, watching my every move.

Shocked at my own audacity, I lift one foot and prop my spiked heel on the windowsill. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I reach down and unhook the garter. My heart races as I roll my silk stocking down, revealing the milky white of my bare thigh.

Is it my imagination, or did the silhouette just adjust himself?

Okay, this is insane. What am I doing? I can feel my panties growing wet, though, heat gathering low in my belly, and I know I’m not going to stop. An exhilarating rush of power courses through me. I’m tantalizing a stranger, a man whose face I can’t even see, whose name I’ll never know. My body, the same one that feels so wrong and ungainly as I march through my workday trying hard to be invisible, suddenly feels deliciously visible. I’m a force to be reckoned with. The man on the balcony wants to touch me. He’s imagining what he’d do to me if only we weren’t separated by all this concrete and glass.

It’s been too long since someone touched me. Ravished me. Suddenly my whole body aches. When was the last time someone seared me with a kiss, cupped my breasts with desperate need, fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe?

Way too long.

I lean against the glass. The cold melts through the fabric of my panties and feels delicious against my hot clit. I long to reach down and finger myself, but I hold back. Not yet. I want to make this last.

Another movement on the balcony catches my eye. A woman swings open the French doors and steps out onto the terrace, a couple of highball glasses in her hands. I can see her in some detail as she steps into the spill of gold light; she’s wearing a blue dress and sparkly jewelry, a going-out ensemble. Maybe they just got back from a nightclub. Maybe they’ve been dancing, hips pressed together, sweat glazing their limbs. They look young, yuppie-ish, respectable.

I recoil, hiding behind my curtains, blushing furiously. The craziness of what I’m doing strikes me with fresh intensity. I’m Ruby Sugars—I don’t strip for strangers, expose myself in the dead of night! Still I linger, too turned on to sleep, too curious to walk away.

The man tosses his cigarette, takes both glasses from the woman and sets them down. I expect him to lead her inside, but instead he moves behind her and pins her hips against the wrought iron railing. He looks like he’s whispering something in her ear. They’ve stepped out of the shadows, and I can see them clearly—so clearly that I know the exact moment when her gaze turns to my window. Her dark red hair gleams in the light shining from their windows as he runs his fingers through it. Then his hands reach around and cup her breasts. I watch in mute fascination as she arches her back against him, eyes closing in pleasure. I can see his hands encircling her small waist, pulling her to him. His lips wander over the pale curve of her neck, planting a trail of kisses. One hand nudges the bodice of her dress to the side, frees her breast, exposing her body to the cool night air. I can imagine the fog-kissed breeze caressing her bare skin, the shivery pleasure of it. The contrast between his hot mouth on the sensitive skin behind her ear and the cold night air whispering over her flesh.

All the while, she stares right at my window.

Carefully, my breathing ragged, I pull the curtain open again. They’re both staring at me as I slowly undo the top of my corset, letting my full breasts spill out. My nipples pull into tight, hard peaks. I tilt forward until they’re touching the glass; the cold ripples through me, an electric thrill.

The redhead shakes back her hair and arches her back, leaning over, pressing her ass against him. He lifts up her dress and in a moment he’s inside her, making no attempt to hide his thrusting hips as he grips her even tighter. She opens her mouth. I can just make out her moan of pleasure. Without thinking, my hand snakes down into my panties. I’m so wet. My fingers slide easily in and out of my pussy. When I finally touch my clit it’s so swollen and ready, just a few strokes makes me come. I call out, surprised at the sound I make; it starts as a low animal growl and quickly turns into a keening yelp of surprise.

The woman on the balcony throws back her head with a grimace of pleasure. The man yanks at her hair and thrusts deep into her one last time.

Behind me, Nero meows, pulling me from my trance. The man takes his date by the hand and leads her back inside. They close the French doors behind them. Just like that, it’s over. I let out a breathy sigh, my emotions pinging between pleasure and mortification.

I yank the curtains closed and turn to face my cat, who is once again ensconced in the middle of my bed, gnawing on my silk throw pillow. He gives me a superior, all-knowing look that actually makes me blush. My legs feel a little shaky; I slip off my pumps before stumbling across the room toward bed.

“Shut up,” I warn Nero as I peel off the vampy lingerie and pull my pj’s back on. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know your neighbors.”


Chapter Four

Fantasy Man

Sunday morning I walk the seven blocks from my North Beach apartment to my favorite café. Brunch at Café Bovolo is a weekly ritual Wanda and I started over four years ago when I moved to San Francisco. She’s lived in the city longer than me. She dropped out of UC Santa Cruz spring semester our freshman year and never went back. Her parents bought her this awesome place in the Marina District, the lucky wench. I came here fresh out of college and moved in with Wanda for a couple months before we both realized we couldn’t stand living together. She’s a slob and I’m an unrepentant neat freak; even her excellent cleaning lady couldn’t bridge the gap between us.

When I arrive, Wanda’s already there at our favorite table. She looks gorgeous as usual. She’s thrown a turquoise cashmere wrap over a sea green silk camisole; endless strands of brightly colored beads sparkle at her throat. A jaunty suede hat completes the look. I’m surprised she’s here before me. Usually she sweeps in ten minutes late, after I’ve ordered for both of us and sucked down most of my latte.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she says the second I sit down, “but I found your dream man.”

“Not before coffee,” I warn her, signaling the waiter.

She lets out a little squeal. “I’m serious! He’s so perfect you’re going to wet yourself!”

A sour-faced woman with two little kids seated at the next table flashes us a look of distaste, but Wanda doesn’t notice.

“Tell me this isn’t the ‘project’ you mentioned for your—?”

“Fantasy matchmaking! Yes! And this guy has the biggest hard-on for dark-haired voluptuous sex kittens, Ruby. He’s the man for you! At least for one night.”

I clutch my forehead. “Okay, that’s way too much perkiness this early in the morning. Can we bring it down a couple notches until I catch up on the coffee?”

The waiter mercifully comes over to take my order, and soon we’re surrounded by delicious breakfast foods as well as fortifying caffeine. Wanda can’t stop talking about this guy. In the midst of her excited babble I piece together the following:



1. He’s from out of town, visiting for a couple weeks.

2. She met him at a party in Sausalito (i.e., super swanky).

3. He’s obsessed with 1950s pinup girls.



“You know I hate blind dates,” I remind her.

She holds up one finger. “No, no, no, this isn’t a blind date.”

“It sure sounds like one.”

“It’s a fantasy date.” When my expression doesn’t change, she presses on. “See, on a blind date you’re looking for something permanent. It’s like an audition for domestic life. You spend the first ten minutes obsessing over how his initials will look on the monogrammed towels, or how his nose will look on your baby’s face. This is totally different.”

“Because it’s just a hookup?” I ask, spearing a home fry.

“Because you already know the most important thing about each other: you share the same fantasy.” She takes a sip of cappuccino and licks the foam from her lips. “It’s the ideal setup for one night of no-strings-attached, totally uninhibited, completely fucking mind-blowing anonymous sex.”

The woman cutting up her toddler’s pancakes at the next table pauses to shoot us another scowl.

“That lady said a bad word, Mommy.” One of her rug rats, the one with jam smeared across his forehead, stares at us with wide-eyed awe.

“Yes, she did,” his mother agrees, her jaw tight.

Wanda smiles sweetly, then turns her attention back to me.

I lean toward her, lowering my voice self-consciously. “The whole thing sounds kind of sketchy. How much do even you know about him? I could end up dismembered.”

“I can’t reveal my sources,” she says. “I’m not even going to tell you his name—hence the anonymous part. But I will tell you this: he’s a perfect gentleman, well-bred with impeccable manners. Plus, he’s unspeakably hot.”

“If he’s so awesome, why would he be willing to go along with this?”

She gapes at me, indignant. “Men completely get this whole setup. It’s only women who struggle with it. Guys understand the power of isolating an encounter for maximum eroticism. Just because he’s open to a new, exciting experience doesn’t make him a sleaze.”

“Yeah. Okay. I see that.”

She stabs a strawberry with her fork and waves it at me. “Besides, you seriously need to get laid.”

“Hey!” I glance around, none too eager for the entire room to know I’m sexually deprived. “I’m fine being alone for now.”

“You are so far from fine, it’s not even funny. That little prick Derek messed with your head.”

She’s talking about Derek Ensler, this outdoor enthusiast I dated last year. Rock climbing was his religion. His idea of a romantic weekend away involved freeze-dried meals, backpacks and bouldering. Totally not me. When we broke up I burned every polar fleece item I owned. He ditched me for his personal trainer. Not the happiest chapter of my dating history.

“I’m over him,” I grumble, reluctant to rehash that mess.

“I know, but he left tangible scars. He’s almost as guilty as The Stick when it comes to damaging your self-esteem.” She chews the strawberry thoughtfully, then adds, “I think one night with a stranger who gets just how sexy you are would jump-start your confidence and kick you into high gear.”

I sigh. “Will you accept ‘I’ll think about it’?”

“No.” She laughs when she sees my pouty expression. “Okay! For now! But you’re going to say yes. I can feel it.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her right now, but there’s no way I’ll ever agree to her scheme. A blind date’s bad enough, but a blind date with a guy who expects me to fulfill his every fantasy? After outdoorsy Derek and the ego-deflating setbacks at work, I’m barely ready to inch my way into the shallow end of the dating pool. Yet here’s Wanda, urging me to do a backflip off the high dive. As much as I’d like to support her new venture, I can’t be her lab rat this time. I’ll let her cool down a little, and if it comes up again I’ll give her a firm no. For now, let her think she’s worked her magic.


Chapter Five

Gioioso

“We’ve been courting Gioioso for way too long. We’re tired of dating, it’s time to commit.” Felicity looks unusually severe in her dark tailored suit. She paces around the conference room like a panther sizing up her prey. “This meeting is our big shot, and I don’t intend to blow it.”

It’s Wednesday morning, and Felicity’s gathered three creative teams around the table to brainstorm: Dylan and Luke, Carrie and Matt, Simon and me. Felicity is unusually tense, which in turn makes all of us twitchy. Also, she happens to be right about Gioioso. If we don’t land this account at the big pitch in two weeks, we’ve wasted months courting a client we’ll never work with, and that represents dollars we’ll never get back.

“So, what do we really know about Gioioso?” Felicity looks around expectantly, eyes wide.

Dylan, always confident in that jovial, frat boy way that makes me cringe, pipes up first. “Plus-size clothing for women, very upmarket.”

“And very Italian.” Carrie swings her blond bob flirtatiously. “Gioioso means ‘joyous.’”

“Also sometimes translates as ‘buxom.’” Luke’s eyes flit to me with a crooked smile.

Yes. Buxom. I got that from the Google Translate page, too. Cheerful fat girls. Just my thing. I notice Carrie shooting a furtive glance my way. She and Matt exchange a quick smile. Looks like I’m the elephant in the room. I sometimes wonder how I got hired here at all. Maybe it was a diversity mandate; they had to fill their fat-girl quota.

Carrie, always eager to get in on a private joke, adds slyly, “They have an extensive line of plus-size undergarments.”

Just in case anyone wasn’t already thinking about that fucking picture, now they are. Thanks, Carrie.

Felicity turns to Simon and me, eyebrows arched in expectation. “Thoughts?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking...” My throat seizes up the way it always does when I try to speak in front of a group. I clear it and start again. “The plus-size market needs a fresh approach. Most of the comparable clothing lines in the U.S. have a distinctly dowdy look. Totally unsexy.”

“It’s hard to make a size sixteen look remotely appealing, let alone sexy.” Felicity looks around at everyone, as if challenging us to disagree.

“Exactly.” Dylan, who backs up everything Felicity has ever uttered, nods solemnly.

Simon’s dark eyes dart to me quickly before focusing on Felicity. “What I think Ruby meant to say is that one possible concept here could be ‘big is beautiful.’”





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