Guilty Pleasures (10 page)

Millie laughed. “Soon, Tim, soon.” She quickly hugged him and turned away.
 

Lance and Tim nodded at each other. Lance noticed Tim checking out Millie’s plump rear with a decidedly lustful expression in his eyes.

Hurrying not to be left behind, Lance jogged after her. At the far end of the market, Millie—greeting all and sundry along the way—finally stopped at a counter where a harried-looking girl was carefully packing monstrous lime green cabbage blossoms into shallow boxes.
 

“Good morning, Marie,” Millie said.

“Millie, finally!” Marie rushed to the back and started bringing out lidded boxes and piling them onto the counter. “Here you go. Four large arrangements of black sunflowers with silver centres as you requested.”

“Thanks, Marie. Anything else going on?”

“Mum’s ill, I’m here alone, and things are piling up. Jeff wants a baby, and I want to run away to the Sahara and never see an exotic bloom again as long as I live.” Marie sighed in exasperation.

“Well, give your mum my best, and tell Jeff to get a dog. As for the desert—well,
you’d
get heat rash! And don’t talk rubbish; you know you love exotic plants.”

Millie piled two boxes into Lance’s arms and deftly took up two herself. “I’ll leave you to it, Marie. Send me the bill.” She blew her a kiss. “Onward, Will . . .”

Two hours later, they pulled into the loading zone in front of Guilty Pleasures. Lance unloaded, packed away, and was summarily dismissed.

“See you at three; get some rest. You’ll need it tonight.” She grinned mischievously. “Middle-aged lusty matrons in wigs can’t hold a candle to hordes of starved supermodels eating fats and complex sugars for the first time in a year.”

“I’ll look forward to it! Good-bye, Miss Millie, see you later!” Smiling to himself, Lance left Glass Street behind. He couldn’t remember when he’d last enjoyed himself so much. There
was
a chink in her armour. The unexpected intimacy starting to develop between them told him she wasn’t insensitive to his appeal. If he worked slowly and carefully, the chink would become a rent, allowing him access to her very soul.
 

The fact that he would be similarly exposed didn’t even occur to him.

Millie thoughtfully watched Will walk away and yawned, preparing herself for her midmorning nap. What an interesting mix the man was. That endearing shyness covered a bright and sensitive mind. It didn’t hurt that he had a tight delicious arse, beautifully enhanced by his long-legged stride.

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Will’s very funny, and very insecure. Almost like a teenager trying out different faces to find out who he wants to be, but underneath there seems to be a core of honesty to him, a hesitant sweetness. I can see why Serge likes him.
 

He’s bright, very bright actually, and very attractive.

He really should review his image, though. He looks like an extra from
Grease
. Okay, a yummy extra from
Grease
. Thank God he was with me. He saved me from having Tim paw at my bottom. The man just doesn’t give up. Tim is nice, but . . . phew! I can’t stand that orangey fur he passes off as chest hair! Imagine him
nude? Here comes the Ginger Bear.

Okay . . . it’s not the hair. I like hairy, actually. I’m just plain scared, all right? I can’t risk being naked again. Not buck naked, but spiritually and emotionally naked, open, vulnerable, exposed, hoping. Believing and giving of myself, getting broken and feeling that hole in me again. I don’t know if I can survive that again—walking the path of the crushed heart.

There, I said it. Are you happy now?

Chapter 8

Use your mouth. Nibble, caress, whisper, and most importantly,
talk to her
.

Moans, grunts, and groans don’t count as talk. Good pillow talk is very, very sexy.

Please take note. These phrases are not advisable as love talk: ‘Baby let me put it in’, ‘you got me so hard’, ‘you got hot knockers’, ‘I love your big arse’, or ‘look at what I’ve got for you’. Use her name. Yes, she knows who she is, make sure she knows that
you
do, too.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Lance got up from a refreshing midmorning nap, did a brief workout, and showered. He decided to wear a plain black T-shirt with a close round neck, black jeans, and his leather bomber jacket. After a quick
healthy
snack, he dressed carefully and headed for Guilty Pleasures.

Serge was already ruling the roost, sifting huge amounts of flour with flamboyant gestures, looking rather like a devil in a snowstorm. He was grumbling to Millie. “Real food is what we’re supposed to be about! Chips, burgers, pizza, and banana splits!” He sifted the flour with vicious motions. “
Hot dogs?
Where is the integrity in
that?
”

Millie laughed. “Darling, we sell fantasy, and you know it! The mood, the moment, the experience, the taste . . . we fulfil desires.”

“Not so different from the brothel in Istanbul, are we, then? It’s still whoring.”

“Well, at least
here
your arse is not on the menu,” Millie replied dryly. She pushed through the swinging doors, calling out cheerfully over her shoulder. “Hi, Will. I’ll need you later.”

“Good afternoon, Millie. No problem! Hi, Serge. Have a nice weekend?”

“Willie Wanker, it’s about time. We overlooked it on Saturday, but today you’d best put on one of them whites in the locker room. Something’s bound to fit.” Serge vanished in another cloud of white.

Lance moved to the locker room, searched and found a reasonable fit among the crisply laundered garments. He slipped it on after removing his T-shirt and hanging it up. He smoothed it down and walked back to the kitchen.
 

“That’s better. Now you look like a real cook’s monkey. Go wash your hands and let’s start you on something useful. You sift this shit while I prepare the yeast.”

“What are we making?” Lance asked.
 

“Bloody hamburger buns and fucking hot dog rolls, what else?”

“Oh, I thought you’d buy those.”

Serge’s eyes popped. “Not in
my
kitchen! You ask for genuine crap, you get genuine crap. You get the best crap available in any shit-hole on the bloody planet!”

“Right.” Lance sifted conscientiously, keeping his head down, concentrating on the clean smell and the soft, whispering drifting of the flour into the bowl.
 

After a while, Serge scuttled over, clambered up on the step next to him and sniffed. “Enough now. That should be enough. Not even those starveling bitches can eat more than a pound of bread each. Come over here and learn how to mix the yeast.” He crumbled a flesh-coloured substance into a bowl, added a teaspoon of sugar, and carefully poured in a small amount of water.
 

Lance watched his capable hands attentively.

“Tepid water, Willie—not hot, or you’ll kill it. Then it needs sugar to feed it, and a loving hand to mix it. It’s alive, you see, and
this
is what’s gonna make that bread great.”
 

An overwhelmingly warm, sweet smell rose from the bowl.
 

“And now? You mix it in the flour?” Lance asked curiously.

“Now you cover it with a cloth. You let it breathe, and give it time to grow.” Serge tenderly covered the bowl and placed it in a small cupboard. “Go see what Millie needs, Willie. Get out from under my feet for the next half hour.”

“Yes, sir.” After rinsing his hands, Lance hurried off through the doors leading to the salon.

An astonishing transformation had taken place in the salon. The glittering chandelier still hung above, but it was now reflected from the gleaming surface of a long black glass table. From the walls, lustrous black and white posters of beautiful girls alternated with large black-framed mirrors. The entire room was filled with reflected light and lush flesh. He gasped, turning on his heels, and met his own image multiplied by the tall mirrors, enfolded by dizzying images of women offering the viewer their generous flesh with unembarrassed sensuality.

Tall floor lamps with silver shades created conversation areas, furnished with armchairs upholstered with zebra skins. On the table, the black and silver sunflowers nodded at their own reflection.

Millie’s voice startled him.
 

“Good timing, Will. I was just about to call you. I need to get a
chaise longue
from the small salon, and some cushions from storage. Would you mind giving me a hand?”

“Of course not.” Lance bowed gallantly. “At your service, madame.”

She flashed him a shy, startled smile and led him out through the salon’s main door and into the corridor beyond, onto which several tall doors opened. “Here. This is the small salon. We use it for small intimate dinners for two to eight people. It’s booked for tomorrow. A thrash-metal rock star celebrating his grandmother’s birthday, would you believe?” Millie pointed out a curvaceous purple velvet
chaise longue
. “That’s the one.”

They each moved to one end and lifted it. With a little manoeuvring, they got it out through the door and into the corridor, then into the main salon.

“Perfect. Just the touch of colour I wanted to offset the black and silver.”

“Looks great. Do you do all the decorating yourself?”

“Most of it. We have a decorator on retainer, but I help with the décor, the creativity, and I personally handle all the public relations. Serge cooks. Sometimes, he even lets
me
cook. But don’t get me off track. Now we need the cushions.”