Champagne Cravings (6 page)

“And that would be a good thing?”

She giggled. “Yes, silly. It means my fans know how horrible
the experience was for me and they understand someone wanted to ruin Elan’s big
launch party. That creates a huge buzz for me and the company, plus lots of
sympathy
and
curiosity, which all equates to ginormo sales!”

“Ginormo…? Oh never mind,” I said with a shake of my head. I
was aging with every minute that passed.

“It’s like that movie
Basic Instinct
, right?” she
continued on, talking and dressing so fast it made my mind reel. So too did the
fact she was referencing a movie that had come out just a year after she’d been
born. “I’ve read about how the critics had a huge cow over the lesbian scene
with Sharon Stone and it generated a massive buzz about the movie. Religious
groups called for a ban and people were in an uproar and wanted it pulled from
theaters, but all the complaints served as hype and jacked up ticket sales.
That whole ‘there’s no such thing as bad publicity’…or whatever the saying
is…totally applies in this situation. I think Elan will see a positive impact
from what we all consider to have been a disastrous evening. As for me,” she
buttoned up her low-cut suit jacket and slipped into a pair of five-inch
stilettos, “I’ve got offers pouring in. Seriously, my agent said his phone has
been ringing off the hook
all
morning for guest appearances on talk
shows and more modeling jobs.”

She executed a smooth three-sixty and then spread her arms
wide. “Appropriate for taking on the world?”

I had to hand it to her, the woman was more than blessed
with self-awareness. She was a freakin’ force of nature with which to be
reckoned. I said, “You look sensational.” She did. From head to toe. “Women
like you are the reason the term ‘shrinking violet’ came about.”

Biel stared blankly at me. “I don’t get it.”

“You put us all to shame,” I explained.

“Oh please.” She waved a hand at me again. “You are so
beautiful. I saw you last night at the party. That silver dress was stunning.”

“Thanks.” I had no idea what to say beyond that. Being
complimented by a supermodel was not the norm for me, and the fact she’d
actually picked me out of the crowd—and could recall the dress I’d been wearing
at the height of the pre-launch debacle—was much too mind-boggling to process.

“Well,” Biel said as she tucked a large envelope-style purse
under her arm. “I’m sorry I have to run. How about we meet tomorrow? I have an
hour or so available before I hook up with Piper and some of our friends. We
could have a drink at Velage in Chelsea. Nine o’clock?”

She gave me a hopeful look I couldn’t resist. “I’ll see you
there,” I told her as I handed over my business card with my cell phone number.

We walked out together, Biel chatting enthusiastically about
her upcoming meeting with her agent before we parted ways at the bank of
elevators. I returned to my office in time to meet with the vice president of
information technology. A helpful diversion from the erotic images of Biel and
Piper that were now ingrained on my brain.

The VP, Greg Hanson, was prepared to give me access to the
email system so I could do some keyword searches, but instead, I requested
email transcripts for the past month from everyone in the marketing and PR
departments. Cell phone activity would follow, but I thought I’d see if anyone
had divulged an excessive amount of information electronically, since the leak
that had been stymied was to an online social media network.

Greg wasn’t exactly pleased to grant my request, given the
amount of work involved with providing hard copies, but as Mav had told me, the
top brass had been informed to cooperate with me and give me whatever
information I needed for the investigation.

True to my word to Mike, I was home before seven.

Yes, I Like Them Bad.

I dumped an armful of transcripts on the kitchen counter and
changed into a pair of beige drawstring pants and a white tank top with
spaghetti straps. Pulling my hair into a ponytail, I settled on the couch and
went back to work. Not quite an hour later, the doorbell rang.

Excitement skipped through me at the same time apprehension
gripped me. Two extremely contradictory feelings, both of which held
significant meaning. I couldn’t say I’d been successful in keeping all thoughts
of Mike from my mind during the course of the day, but I was so busy with my
case—and so shocked by Biel and Piper—I’d managed to keep from completely
obsessing over him or worrying about seeing him tonight.

My work at Elan had helped me to stay calm throughout the
day, but now my nerves jumped to attention. My stomach tumbled. My nipples
tightened. The latter freaked me out the most. I’d had yet another sexually
charged encounter with Biel, and though I was not interested in her
romantically, I did find her exuberance refreshing and her confidence enticing.

And yes, she was exceptionally beautiful and sexy, which
meant there was no way I could have avoided being aroused when I’d watched her
and Piper together. Unfortunately, the stimulation hadn’t dissipated. Adding to
that was the knowledge of Mike being on the other side of my front door.
Thinking of his kisses got me hot and bothered all over again.

Not necessarily a good thing. I was trying to keep a cool
head when it came to him and I couldn’t do that when the mere thought of him
sent my heart and my body into a complete tizzy.

Pulling the door open, I was back to nearly self-combusting
when I laid eyes on him.

“Hey, babe,” he said in his casual tone.

He wore faded Levis and a navy-colored T-shirt. The sleeves
strained against the bulge of his biceps. The material stretched across the
hard ledge of his pectoral muscles. He’d tucked the hem into the waist of his
jeans, which fit him sinfully well. He did New York chic justice when he was
out and about, but opted for the comfort of his native Wyoming when hanging out
at the apartment. I liked both looks, but had to admit the worn denim conformed
to every inch of him in just the right way. I felt the drool build again.

Jesus.
My attraction to him was even worse now that I
knew how arousing his kisses were and how fiery my desire for him could be if I
let it get out of hand.

I had to be very careful not to throw caution to the wind,
regardless of how much I wanted him.

“Hey,” I said back, as I stepped aside so he could enter the
foyer. He carried two bags of Chinese food with him.

He took a couple of long strides into my apartment and
planted a killer kiss on me. Nothing tentative and no water-testing from this
guy tonight. He went straight for the gold medal, kissing me like a world
champion. His tongue tangled with mine as his lips pressed against my mouth. A
moan swelled in my throat and I couldn’t tamp it down.

Fueled by my response to him, he used his body against mine
to coax me backward to the wall. He set the bags on the entryway table, never
breaking the kiss. His arms slipped around my waist and he crushed our bodies
together, making all the nerve endings inside me go haywire.

A vibrant current ran through me, pulsing deep in my cunt
and creating an intense pressure I knew only Mike could relieve.

When he finally pulled away from me, I was breathless and
practically swooning as though I was the heroine in one of the black-and-white
movies we sometimes watched.

“Oh boy,” I whispered as my hands clutched his broad
shoulders.

On a jagged breath, he said, “Sorry. I wasn’t going to kiss
you tonight. Thought I’d give you some space. But I couldn’t help myself.”

“I wasn’t going to let you kiss me,” I admitted. “But I
couldn’t help myself either.”

With a grin, he asked, “So you’ve taken a few steps to catch
up to me?”

I gnawed my lip as I considered this. Our encounter in the
hallway this morning forced me to see we’d been moving in this direction for
three years. In fact, I’d actually had this revelation last night, though I
hadn’t been able to sort it all out, what with the passion-induced fog clouding
my brain.

Tonight, however, I could see this had been a slow, yet
inevitable seduction, suddenly cast into the light with Mike’s broken shower
and my physical needs, which he easily amped up. I’d wanted him for a long
time. I’d been able to ignore the burning desire by categorizing him and by
keeping our association on a friendly basis. But perhaps it was because we were
such great friends that transitioning into something more serious was actually
a natural progression.

The trouble I had with this theory stemmed from not being
able to see the big picture at this point—something I desperately needed. Were
we simply shifting into the friends with significant benefits realm, or did
Mike really believe we could be serious enough about each other to attempt a
more substantial commitment?

My stomach churned over these possibilities. Accepting the
fact we’d arrived at this crossroad didn’t exactly soothe my frayed nerves,
primarily because—as much I’d like to say otherwise—I suddenly couldn’t fathom
not
having this new hint of intimacy between us that allowed us to kiss each other
as if we’d been doing it for years. As though this was a standard greeting for
us.

A slippery slope, I understood. Which was why I had to
remain cautious. Stay on guard just enough to not get lost in the sexual
shuffle.

“I’m not sure where I’m at right now,” I told him honestly,
still wanting to identify a broader scope of what was going on between us so I
could get my feet more steadily beneath me. “But I’m not complaining about you
kissing me.” How could I, when I now craved the affection?

“Good to know,” he said with a sizzling-hot look. “I can
work with your tortoise pace as long as I still get to make out with you.”

But no sex—for the moment.
He didn’t have to say the
words, I’d heard the point he’d made last night. My heart melted this time,
instead of seizing up with the pain of rejection. He was trying to take
this…whatever it was that was happening between us…slow. For me. I knew he
wasn’t accustomed to holding back. He was the type of man who went after what
he wanted and his women didn’t balk at his aggressive, alpha behavior. I’d
witnessed enough heated moments between him and his girlfriends to know Mike
Lucas didn’t lollygag. Chase and Brandon hadn’t either.

Yet, for me, Mike was attempting a different approach.

I asked, “Are you sure this is worth the effort you’re
expending?”

He stared down at me with his lazy, yet oh so sexy smile.
“Long past that point, babe. Roll with it.” He gave me a quick kiss on the
forehead and then collected the food that was making my entryway smell as yummy
as the House of Hunan.

I followed him into the living room and uncorked a bottle of
pinot noir while Mike laid out our meal on the squat, square coffee table that
matched my end tables and the tall bookcase in rich espresso. The sofas were
chocolate suede with pale-blue pillows that had thin, dark-brown swirls on
them. Everything in my apartment was color-coordinated, reflecting my slight
obsessive-compulsive behavior. I liked everything neat and tidy and in its
place. I supposed my semi-OCD and structured lifestyle were what drew bad boys
to me in the first place. They liked to muss me up. Toss all my alphabetized
cards into the air and let them fall where they may to see if I’d leave them be
or scoop them up to re-categorize them.

My first experience with a bad boy had been long before
Chase. In junior high, I’d had a crush on a bad boy but had never uttered a
word about it, nor had I accepted his invitation to our first boy-girl dance.
I’d blown him off for a band geek. In high school, the hot quarterback with the
bad reputation had followed me around campus, offering to carry my books and
telling me how much he wanted me to wear his letterman jacket. I’d passed him
over for the president of the student body and honor society, though I’d been
intensely attracted to the quarterback and had secretly fantasized about being
his girlfriend.

In college, I’d finally given into the magnet-and-steel
effect between me and bad boys. I’d been at a biker bar in San Francisco’s
trendy North Beach district during spring break my senior year. My friends and
I had staked our claim at a high-top that sat four and faced the dance floor. A
band playing sexy jazz with muted trumpets and wailing saxophones lent a sultry
mood to the atmosphere. I’d been stirring my cocktail with a straw, not
particularly liking the frothy drink. The other girls had been asked for one
dance after another, but I had school and my future on my mind, having been
offered a TV reporting spot before I’d even graduated. I hadn’t made eye
contact with or encouraged anyone at the bar to come my way.

Nick hadn’t needed any encouragement.

I’d lifted my gaze from my drink when I’d felt someone
staring at me. Our eyes had locked across the dance floor and he’d simply slid
off his barstool, crossed the crowded floor and taken my hand in his. He hadn’t
spoken a word, not even to ask me if I wanted to dance. He’d held his hand out
to me and I’d slipped mine into the strong grasp as he’d pulled me from my own
stool. He’d walked me out onto the dance floor and held me tightly in his arms
as we swayed to the provocative music.

Song after song, we didn’t say a thing to each other, just
danced. He was the sexiest man I’d laid eyes on at that point in my life. All
of the women in the nightclub had been lusting after him and trying to get his
attention in a blatant way. He was tall, dark and handsome, dressed all in
black and sporting too-long dark brown hair. I’d felt his muscles against my
body and beneath my fingertips when I’d gripped his shoulders. Three or four
songs into the night, I’d relinquished my hold on his shoulders and had tangled
my fingers in his hair. His skin had smelled of soap and male heat. His breath
had been laced with tequila.

I remembered everything about him, even nine years later,
because he’d been the bad boy who’d unwittingly sparked my inevitable romantic
and sexual downfall. It’d been my fault, I’d eventually deduced. I’d thought I
could control something that couldn’t be controlled—the consummate bad boy.

With Nick, I’d let him hold me all night long, only taking a
break every now and then to share a beer and visit the restrooms. Then we’d be
back on the dance floor, in each other’s arms. We didn’t talk. I knew nothing
about him. I hadn’t even known his name until we’d parted ways at the end of
the evening. He’d borrowed a pen from the bartender and had written his name
and number on my palm. He’d closed my hand and lifted it to his lips, kissing
my fingers.

“Call me,” he’d said. “Meet me for lunch tomorrow at
Fisherman’s Wharf.” I’d nodded, then he and his friends had roared down the
street on their badass motorcycles as I’d stared after him.

My girlfriends had all suffered heart palpitations and had tried
to persuade me to follow through with the promises I’d made to Nick. To call
him. To meet him for lunch.

I’d wanted to, of course. With every fiber of my being. He
was cool and beautiful and he’d turned me on like a light with a freshly
installed, hundred-watt bulb.

But the next morning, I’d sat on my bed in the hotel room
and stared at the phone, nibbling my lip and vacillating between the “should
I?/no, I shouldn’t” dilemma. I didn’t want to spoil the perfection of the
night. I’d pulled off the kind of evening with a bad boy most good girls
dreamed of executing. I’d captured his attention by doing nothing at all,
except by being me. I’d held his interest all night and had even felt it
elevate as his erection had pressed to my belly. I’d kept my cool and had not
ruined a single second of our time together. He’d been the one to divulge his
name, when I hadn’t given mine. He’d been the one to offer the phone number.
He’d been the one to ask for the date.

And I’d been the epitome of nonchalance, even though he’d
made my pulse race and I’d wanted desperately for him to be my first time.

I’d come to realize after Chase and Brandon had stomped all
over my heart that I’d believed I was capable of taming their wild spirits,
based on my school experiences and that night with Nick.

I’d been so very, very wrong.

Now here was Mike. Settled on my sofa and digging into a box
of Mongolian beef as I poured wine and placed our glasses on the coffee table.

He was a free spirit with a will of his own. That was one of
the things that had attracted me in the first place. Just like all the others.
But unlike the others, we’d spent considerable time getting to know each other.
We shared a solid friendship and I enjoyed that familiarity. So I tried to play
it cool tonight, the way I’d said I would. The way I had with Nick.

Curling up on the sofa next to Mike with a box of cashew
chicken in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other, I asked, “What are
you working on these days?”

He swallowed down a bite, dropped his chopsticks in the box
of beef and reached for his wine. After a sip, he said, “Interesting case,
actually. Art theft.”

“
Ooohh.
” I perked up. “That does sound interesting.”

“I’m working with an insurance investigator to not only try
to recover the piece—an original Renoir, if you can believe it—but to determine
if the guy whose family has owned it for several generations fenced it and then
reported it stolen to collect the insurance money.”

“Little double-dipping. Sneaky bastard.”

Mike nodded. “All signs led me to his doorstep as the
culprit, until I picked up a very intriguing tidbit.”