Double Dare (5 page)

Another ripple of delighted laughter ran over the audience, the erotic tension heavy in the atmosphere. Abby couldn't hide a kernel of desire to be up there with them, cavorting about and declaring herself as liberated and sexy as they were.

A hush fell over the audience while the crop fell, six times, across the plump satin-covered behind of the Fraulein—who gasped and moaned and wriggled in delight. The punk then threw the crop to one side and knelt down behind the Fraulein. She grabbed her hips and led, as the three women began to simulate a chain-reaction interaction. The punk began to sing: "come to the cabaret, old chum," while she thrust her cock at the Fraulein from behind. The Fraulein bent over the virgin's hips and made loud lapping sounds. The audience adored their outrageous love triangle and showed their appreciation by demanding three encores of the final bows.

Marcy was on her feet as soon as the lights went up. "Come on honey, backstage passes."

Abby shook her head in amazement when Marcy waved the laminated badge at her, her camera ready in the other hand.

She felt flushed and lightheaded—self-aware as the lights went up—following Marcy as she squeezed through a door stage right. They emerged into a hospitality room between the stage and the dressing-room area. A bar ran the length of the room, with trays of champagne, Evian and orange juice. People gathered in tight clusters, chatting and flirting—carrying with them the heady atmosphere of the show. She hadn't seen any sign of Wolf-smile. Was he even here? Her instinct said yes.

Marcy wandered when she saw someone she knew in the crowd. Abby picked up a glass of champagne and looked around expectantly. The champagne was good and she let it fizz on her tongue while her gaze flickered over the crowd around her. She felt the urge to blend in, put the empty glass on the bar and began to edge round, her eyes sucking in all there was to see. A journalist who was doing a piece on the show for a variety magazine asked for a moment of her time as she passed by. Abby gladly stopped and chatted. She was thrilled when he asked her reactions to the show and scribbled her appraisal down enthusiastically. He took her card and promised to send her a copy of the magazine. When he left, she couldn't see Marcy anywhere. Or the sexy courier.

"Come out and play, wherever you are," she murmured to herself as she moved through the crowd.

* * * *

Zac stood with his arms folded across his jacket while he watched Abby on the closed circuit televisions that lined up in the security room. She was there. Was it coincidence? When she wandered toward the backstage area and out of his view, a hankering need to follow took hold of him.

By the time he caught up with her, she'd disappeared into the corridor that led directly onto the stage. She was alone in the space, standing by a table of abandoned props. She looked fabulous, clothed in tight leather pants and a snakeskin top that left her midriff bare.

He paused, observing her appreciatively. As he did, she picked up an object from the table. His eyebrows rose. It was the strap-on cock from the play. He'd been about to announce his presence, but instead stepped back and rested one shoulder against the wall, curious to see what would happen next.

She turned it in her hands, looking at it from all angles. She ran her finger over its head, tracing the ridges, the line of its crown.

He was quickly getting hard. When she put her hand around its girth as if to measure it, he couldn't stifle a quiet laugh. "That's quite a sight."

She turned as if startled—caught red-handed—but her expression melted into pleasure when she saw who it was.

He straightened up. "I apologize, I made you jump."

"No. I was hoping I'd run into you." She smiled at him. It was rich with suggestion and humor.

He walked over to where she stood, the tip of the molded cock in her hand now idling against her chest.

"I take it from your examination of the
objects d'art
from the play that you enjoyed them and were taking a closer look?"

She purred, audibly. "Absolutely, it was a great prop." She paused, a teasing smile hovering around her lovely mouth. "When I saw it lying there, I had to check it out first hand." She eyed him up in a way that made his blood roar.

She was unmistakably aroused, her pupils dilated, her scent rich in the air. "Did its use in the show turn you on?"

"It would be impossible not to be turned on, wouldn't it? Weren't you?"

She had no trouble turning the question back on him and he admired her mettle, chuckling in genuine amusement. "Oh yes, but...believe me, I had the best view in the house. From where I was watching I could appreciate the audience...as well as those on the stage." He inclined his head at her, eyeing her body, underlining the private message in his words. "And that was quite a pleasure in itself."

Color rose on her cheeks, but she didn't turn away. Her lips parted, but she did not reply. There was a palpable tension in her, similar to that emanating from him.

"Have you enjoyed your evening?"

"Yes, the show hit so many notes." She spoke slowly. "It made me think, and it made me hot. There was a directness about it, an unashamed attention to pleasure that was refreshing."

"That's what the venue is all about. It's important for people to find places where they can enjoy a different kind of experience, something challenging."

She nodded and her breath came quicker, her eyes flickering into his.

"The human character is a diverse thing," he continued, "people need many different stimuli to thrive."

"Such as exploring fantasies, like the play?"

Oh yes, she was definitely interested.

"Such as exploring alternative realities." He touched her lips with his fingers and she turned into his touch, kissing his fingertip, her tongue darting out to taste it.

Hot
. "That sort of behavior does bad things to a man."

She smiled. "This?" She licked the end of his finger again, her eyes twinkling.

"That and the fact you're holding an erect cock between your breasts."

She laughed and glanced down in surprise. She turned away and put the strap-on back on the table where it belonged.

"Although I would much rather it was my cock in your hands."

When she turned back, she returned his stare with candor. "That's not beyond the realms of possibility." Her gaze dropped to the place where his cock was hard in his pants.

Any iota of self-control that might have been within his grasp vanished. He stepped against her, taking her face in his hands, his fingers sinking deep into her hair.

She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, her lips parted in anticipation. He bent to kiss her, running his tongue along her lower lip, tasting her.

She responded, her hands on his shoulders, her mouth opening. She was lush and supple, her body moving against his in the sexiest way. He moved one hand to press her closer still, resting it in the small of her back. They were body to body. His cock sensed warmth, softness. Willingness. His balls thudded insistently.

A cough issued behind them.

Drawing back, he glanced round and saw Nathan, his right hand man, standing by.

"The journalist from the Arts Bulletin is ready for you."

Reluctantly, Zac released her. "Bad timing," he explained. "I've agreed to give an interview about the venue and the autumn line up." Maybe it was just as well. Their involvement was far from clear cut.

She looked from him to Nathan and back.

Zac raised a hand. "Cheers, Nathan. Take him up to the office and offer him a drink. I'll be with you in two minutes."

Nathan nodded and departed, amusement apparent in his expression.

Surprise lit her face. "Are you the manager or something?"

It was a timely reminder of who they really were. "No title as such, but you could say that."

She gave a startled laugh. "And you moonlight as a courier?"

Coming from her that comment tickled him no end. "It's always wise to have a backup plan when it comes to careers, don't you agree?"

She nodded.

"In fact, I bet you've got a few skills to fall back on, should your receptionist work come to an end." She had the decency to blush, he noticed, but she didn't correct him with her true job status.
Why
?

"A receptionist can always find work. As I suspect couriers can."

Her mouth was so inviting. He wanted to kiss her again. And the rest.

"Tell me," she added, "do you rent the venue out for functions? I'm only a receptionist, but the company I work for might be interested."

"Anything is possible," he stated, ambiguously.

What was she up to, playing the role over again? Why didn't she want him to know she was an investment expert? He couldn't resist the bait though—even if it did mean giving her his name and the possibility of her making the connection. He'd much rather that was avoided.

He slipped his hand into his inner jacket pocket and handed her his personal calling card.

She read it with interest. "Zachary Bordino?"

He nodded. "Call me Zac. And I don't believe you've actually told me your name."

"Abby. Abigail Douglas, but everyone calls me Abby."

"I'm sure we'll meet again, Abby."

"I do hope so." The invitation in her eyes almost made him forget the interview, but he needed the time to figure out why she was masquerading.

"I think we can bank on that." He pushed her loose hair back over one shoulder, his hands itching to hang on to her instead. "Call me or drop by, any time."

What the hell—he wanted her.

"Make it soon."

Chapter Three

The following morning Abby walked into the Heathrow European arrivals lounge seconds before Ed emerged, waving his folded newspaper at her, his suit carrier resting over one arm. He kissed her cheek while he talked about the flight and the atrocious tea he'd had to drink.

It reminded her she was ravenous. "You promised me breakfast."

He laughed. "So I did, let's go."

As they sat chatting over croissants and steaming black coffee, Abby found she could barely focus on what he was saying to her. She was looking beyond him, remembering her encounter with Zac the night before. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to concentrate on what Ed was telling her about the problems with the Pascal account.

"It's a complete mess. There's so much paperwork that Tom hadn't been given access to in the early days. We only discovered it yesterday." He looked at her sheepishly. "We're going to have to be in Geneva for at least a couple of days a week."

She nodded, wishing he didn't feel as if he had to explain to her. They were good friends, not lovers. Not any more. "Have you organized a schedule yet?"

"Yes, we plan to divide the time equally if at all possible. A few days in London, then back out, probably Thursday."

She nodded.

He seemed to take her silence as disappointment. He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry. We were timetabled to play squash this week."

"Hey, you don't have to explain to me." She looked down at his hand. He seemed unreal, distant, she could barely feel him. She was still being touched by Zac.

She dropped him at his Islington terrace, declining his invite to stay for lunch, and drove back to her own apartment, parking up her mini for the week. Mostly she traveled by tube or taxi, but she loved having the car nonetheless.

She began to look at the files she had brought home from work. One of the criteria of the Ashburn account was to invest in property. Ed had already targeted a development of apartments around a large marina along the south coast. Abby was looking for something a bit more adventurous.

As she leafed through the upcoming auctions her hands kept leading her back to a castle that was located in the west coast of Ireland. The photographs that accompanied the profile showed a gothic tower and ramparts that were architecturally outstanding, but begging for restoration. It would be a real gamble investing in something like that on behalf of a client, but it was also a rare property opportunity and Abby couldn't help being drawn to it. She certainly liked the idea of being locked up in the tower with a dark prince who kept her there at his mercy, playing out some wild idea on a big white bed. I wonder why? When she closed the file the castle remained on the top of the heap.