Bad Influence, page 9
And that, of course, started the rounds of introductions in earnest. In a moment, Paige found herself surrounded by the whole group, shaking hands and nodding at names that flew by so quickly she hadn’t a prayer of remembering them.
“Why don’t you come over here with us, Lyndon?” Charlie suggested, radiating bonhomie. “We were just talking about what the Fed’s going to do with interest rates in the next six months. Seems like it’s all over the place.”
“I’ll tell you,” her grandfather began, “I’ve been watching the market for sixty-five years and…” And he was off.
It was good for him, Paige thought, watching him wade into the spirited debate. He worried about her being cooped up but he’d been just as isolated. She needed to get him out, perhaps out to the country club for dinner or an afternoon drink.
“Based on historic numbers, the rates are going to go up,” Lyndon insisted. “All you have to do is look—”
“You can’t judge by Greenspan’s track record. We’ve got a completely new person at the helm now.” The voice was calm, female and certain. And instantly all conversation stopped.
Gloria Reed stood in the archway from the family wing wearing a beautifully cut white silk trouser suit that managed to somehow understate her rather considerable endowments. She didn’t quite accomplish chic—it simply wasn’t possible with her curves—but with her subtle makeup and discreet French twist, she did achieve stylish, professional and classy.
And a timeless beauty.
She walked over to them with just the faintest hint of swagger. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen.” She extended her hand. “I’m Gloria Reed.”
There was a beat of silence while the planning commission members simply stared, slack-jawed. And then they hurried to cluster around her.
“That Gloria, she sure do know how to shut down a room, don’t she?” Zach observed from where he stood behind Paige. Right behind her. “Look.” He pointed. “Even your new boyfriend is flocking over.”
She scowled. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Good thing. Way too tame for you, Wild Thing.”
“I told you—”
“Not to call you that,” he finished for her. “Maybe we’ll have to discuss that in private.”
Like a ringmaster, Gloria managed to get the planning commission and the surprisingly thin turnout of neighbors seated, drinks in hand courtesy of a waiter. When she had them relaxed, immobile and receptive—with the possible exception of Lyndon, and even he looked a little poleaxed—she launched into a summary of her plans for the museum. “Brian is handing around a packet for all of you that contains a summary of the project, including capacity, traffic, estimated numbers and so on. Now if you’ll please turn to page one…”
Even a commodious room like the reception hall could be filled. Zach and Paige chose a padded bench out in the entrance area. Paige crossed her legs with a whisper of hosiery. “So Gloria’s the tour master. What’s your job?”
“Entertainment.”
“You’re going to play?”
“Entertaining you, I mean. I think Lyndon’s buddies will take care of him. We can’t have you bored, though. Nice wheels, by the way.” He trailed his fingertips up the inside of the thigh crossed toward him, out of view of the assemblage in the great room.
And nerves all over her body rose to attention. “Stop that.”
“I don’t think so.”
He stroked the tender skin again and she shivered. “Someone’s going to see.”
“Who? Ben and J.Lo? They won’t care. And I guarantee they won’t tell.” He watched her eyes as he touched her and she felt herself melting. “Come on, let’s let Gloria handle the crowd. Your boyfriend can wheel Lyndon around. I’ll take you on a behind-the-scenes tour.”
“Why do I feel like it’s a really bad idea to take you up on that?” she managed.
“Because you’re a suspicious person.” He gave her a bawdy smile. “Come with me, babe. I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.”
S HE REFUSED TO GO TO the second floor on the grounds that being anywhere within twenty feet of a bed—or even a closed room—could be a hazard. She didn’t trust Zach.
And she didn’t trust herself. Zach Reed had a way of making all her common sense go straight out the window. Something in his eyes when he looked at her, that invitation to misbehave, made it impossible for her to keep on track. If they stayed on the ground floor in the nice empty rooms that were destined for the museum, she’d be safe, Paige reasoned. Architecture was her passion. And it was sure as hell safer than thinking about Zach Reed.
Somehow, though, it didn’t work. Her gaze was aimed at the gilded moldings, but she focused only on the sound of his voice. She walked into a room to study a carved mahogany mantelpiece, but every sense was preoccupied with the brush of his fingertips in the small of her back. She gazed up at the coffered ceilings and all she could do was think about how he could touch her.
And as the minutes crawled by, her nerves shredded more and more.
“Last one,” Zach said as they walked into another room on the museum wing. This time the sound of their footsteps didn’t echo, mostly because the room was filled with stacks of boxes, with wooden packing cases. A polished ebony cane dangled raffishly from the edge of a crate; a feather boa peeked out of another. Eight-foot-high scenery backdrops turned one wall into a lady’s boudoir, another into a Parisian street. Unwrapped framed art stood in vertical stacks against the wall.
“Good Lord,” Paige breathed. “What is all this stuff?”
“This? It’s the museum exhibits.”
“The costumes?”
“There’s a whole lot more than that. She collected her entire career, mostly old vaudeville and burlesque stuff. She’s got the ventriloquist’s dummy from Tuffy McBarnes and a beer mug that Buster Finley played piano with.”
“Beer mug?” Paige raised a brow.
Zach shrugged. “It was his gimmick. Everybody had one back then.”
She crossed to the stack of frames leaning against the wall and began flipping through them. Posters, she discovered, advertising various road shows. “Some of these are really wonderful,” she said, flipping through them. “They have to be valuable. The Coco Latrec Revue. Hollyfield Girls of 1948. The Paris Lido Show.”
He stepped up behind her. “Gloria’s had a lot of people after her to sell, but she really wants to do the museum. She figures if she can get people in here, she can raise money to help the retired performers who don’t have much.”
“The Home for Old Burlesque Dancers?” Paige asked.
“Something like that. She’s kind of a soft touch, so she already sends money to a lot of people. The museum and what she licenses from it will let her set up a fund to help more.”
Paige flipped through the prints, conscious of Zach looking over her shoulder. He reached out to rest a hand on her hip. Heat burned through the fabric she wore until she swore she could feel each of his fingers individually. She turned to stare at him.
“Keep going,” he said. “You’re getting into the really great ones now. That’s from the first show Gloria was booked with,” he said, pointing to a duotone poster in red and white. On it, a chorus line of girls danced.
“And that’s from when she headlined the Columbia Wheel.”
“The Columbia Wheel?”
“The biggest of the traveling revues.” This poster showed Gloria sitting on the edge of a bed looking ready to be tumbled right back in. If Gloria Reed licensed the posters for reprints, she could make a fortune, Paige thought, flipping more frames.
“That’s a poster for her first club.” Zach pointed to a print of Gloria behind a fan.
“And that’s Gloria.”
Blue sky, green grass. The sun shone down on heartland America. Gloria Reed stood on the bottom rail of a white clapboard fence, looking back over her shoulder to the camera, one hand shading her eyes. She wore shorts brief enough to show a pair of lovely, coltish legs above high ankle-strap wedges. Her plaid shirt was just a shade too tight; her mouth was a ripe red. Her smile bloomed with joy and promise and innocence.
“She looks about sixteen,” Paige said in wonder.
“Fifteen, I think. It became really popular during the war, I guess because it reminded the guys of home. A pretty girl will do that.”
“Oh, really,” she said flippantly. “You an authority on pretty girls?”
His eyes locked on hers. “I prefer women,” he said.
And for a breathless instant everything seemed to stop. There was a humming silence in the air—or maybe it was the rush of blood in her veins. His gaze delved into hers. He stood inches away, but she could feel the heat from his body.
Because her nerves were stretched to the breaking point, she turned to walk over to a door on the back wall, partially hidden behind the boudoir backdrop.
“What’s in here?” she asked.
“Take a look for yourself.”
And she did. “Aladdin’s cave,” she murmured, awestruck. It was a small closet filled with marabou and sequins, feathers and all the colors in the rainbow. They were the costumes, swathed in plastic and almost entirely filling the narrow closet, except for a tall wooden packing crate that held heaven only knew what. The plastic wrappings crackled as she flipped through them, stopping to examine an outfit in peacock-blue and rhinestones with long studded gloves. Glamorous but surprisingly modest for all that. Vegas showgirls wore far less. A sheet of notepaper taped to the hanger said Tessa LaFleur, 1934 in a feminine hand.
She was aware of him behind her before she ever felt him. When he did touch her, it was with a press of warm lips on the nape of her neck. “I bet you’d look good in them,” he murmured. “Maybe I should borrow some from Gloria, dress you up.”
“Aren’t you getting a little ahead of the game?”
He leaned in and nibbled on her earlobe. “I don’t know, I’d say we’ve been falling behind.”
Paige turned around to him. “Look, Zach, I want—”
“I want, too,” he whispered and slid his hands up her arms, leaning in to graze his teeth along her jaw. “I want pretty much all the time, and it’s been driving me nuts. You have no idea all the things that I want to do to you. Because I get a feeling that no guy has ever gotten you to really let go.” His lips were warm against her skin, running over her throat, across her cheek. “So I’m going to find a place and a time with just you and me and no clocks and no people and we’ll just see what happens then. Because I am going to make you scream.”
And then his mouth covered hers.
The first time they’d kissed, he’d dared her to go with him. This time he didn’t invite, he just dragged her into hot, dark wanting. His mouth was a demand. His hands were hard, running roughly over her body, molding the contours of her, sliding up into her hair to press her to him. When he stroked her tongue with his, she felt the answering tug between her thighs.
And the want billowed up. She pulled him closer to her, maddened by the barrier of their clothing. She wanted to be naked, skin to skin. She wanted to feel the length of him, all the textures.
And she wanted him inside her, thick and hot and pulsing.
He slipped his hands up under her jacket, pushing it off her shoulders to find the curves beneath, and she made a noise of approval deep in her throat. It wasn’t enough, but it was better. He pressed his hand against her mons so that she could feel the heat through the fabric. She caught her breath and moved against him.
She was getting wet, she had to be, her body responding to his touch. How much she wanted to just unzip his jeans right there, to bring him out, work him until he was hard, to guide him into her, to feel him—
The clack of heels sounded in the hall, with it the rising murmur of voices. Paige’s eyes flew open.
“Oh, my God, the tour,” she whispered. Her hair was a mess, her dress probably looked worse. Her jacket? She snatched it up from the floor and looked around wildly. What the hell were they supposed to do?
“Quick.” Zach pushed her forward. In seconds they’d squeezed into the cramped closet and he’d pulled the door shut.
And then they waited, barely breathing.
It was small. It was crowded. And it was completely black except for the faint crack of light down by their feet. Paige clutched Zach’s shoulders for balance. Then again, she didn’t exactly have room to move her arms down anyway, as tightly as they were pressed together. Moving would make noise. Making noise would be bad. If they could just keep quiet until the tour came in and went, they could possibly get out of this without complete and utter humiliation.
And so she stood, inhaling Zach’s scent, trying not to notice the feel of his body hard against her.
And getting harder, she realized abruptly. There was a definite distinct swelling down below his belt, and she had a pretty good idea what it was.
She smothered a chuckle.
“It’s not nice to laugh at a man in a difficult position,” he murmured into her ear. “Especially if you’re not prepared to help.”
“You’ve got hands, don’t you?” she asked primly.
He laughed softly. “Oh, yeah, I’ve got hands.” And then she stiffened. One of those hands was still around her waist, holding her securely in place.
The other one was migrating south.
Paige’s eyes flew open. “What are you doing?” she whispered furiously.
“Shhh,” he murmured in her ear. “You don’t want to make any noise.” And then his lips began moving down the side of her throat, soft and warm, even as his fingers worked their way up under her skirt.
They heard the sound of feet walking into the room. “This would be the main exhibit area,” Gloria’s voice said. “This and the room next door.”
There wasn’t any space to move away or even to get her arms down to block him, for that matter. The packing crate was hard against her back and Zach was hard against her front. She could feel the swelling of his erection against her thighs. And she could feel his hands slip between, under her skirt, under her thong.
She jolted against him.
“Quiet,” he breathed. “They’re right there.” With a quick press, his fingers wormed their way between her thighs to find her where she was slick and wet and hard.
And lust flooded through her.
“What about fire code?” someone asked.
“Mmm, you’re feeling pretty hot,” Zach murmured.
She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t move, she couldn’t see. All she could do in the darkness was feel. All she could do was focus on that spot, that one burning spot and the tightening of tension within her.
And, oh, his hands, his clever, clever hands worked at her, one curving around the fullness of her buttocks, the other sliding steadily back and forth, now teasing her where she was achingly sensitive, now plunging up all the way inside. And with each stroke he drove her closer to release, closer until he had to press his mouth over hers to stifle her moan.
“In answer to your fire-code question, we’d be in full compliance.” Gloria’s voice drifted through the door. “As the briefing packet shows, the fire marshal has already been out to inspect. I’ve gotten maximum-occupancy numbers from his office, and of course we’ll have fire extinguishers in every room.”
As for Paige, there was nothing that could extinguish the need blazing through her but that delicious, exquisitely maddening stroke that was slowly driving her over the edge. Adrenaline swirled with fear, excitement and pure dry-mouthed lust to send her straining against him, struggling to swallow the sounds that threatened to rise up in her throat. She didn’t give a damn about the museum, about the tour, about the risk of discovery or anything but the orgasm that loomed tantalizingly close, tantalizingly out of reach.
“What about fire exits?” another voice asked. “Is this a door?” Suddenly all thought of orgasm flew out of her head as brisk footsteps headed toward them. She stiffened in utter, breathless horror.
The doorknob clunked as though someone were touching it and everything stopped: the motion of Zach’s hand, her breathing, his lips, her heart, and, very possibly, time itself.
“Not that one, over here,” Gloria said.
The seconds stretched out. Paige stared into the blackness in panic, feeling the thud of her own heart trying to hammer its way out of her chest.
And after approximately a hundred billion years, the footsteps receded.
Sudden relief washed through her, leaving her giddy and weak. Zach pressed his mouth to hers hard. They kissed with an exuberant urgency borne of the near miss. His fingers stroked her clit, swirling around it, against it, every slick touch drawing flares of vivid sensation. Paige growled in demand, nibbling and licking her way over his face, twisting against him in fevered demand.
She could feel how wet she was, how swollen, as he touched her. There was no subtlety, no coyness as he brought her back up to a fever pitch. He was hard, relentless. Then he pressed his finger up inside her where she was empty and needy, and it was that that sent her over, twisting against him as he muffled her faint cries with his mouth, even as the group walked out of the room.
It took long moments for the shudders to end. It took more for her pulse to settle as she sagged against him on legs too weak to hold her.
Finally she swallowed. “Wow,” she managed.
“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Zach murmured, cracking open the door. “You wait until you and I get somewhere really alone.” He pressed her hand against his hard cock. “And then I do believe you might owe me one.”
8
T HE AFTERNOON WAS settling in as Paige sat in her grandfather’s living room staring at the chessboard.
Lyndon rubbed his chin, studying the pieces. Then he reached out decisively and moved a rook.
“Checkmate,” he announced.
“What the…?” Paige blinked at the board and then saw he was right. “How the heck did you do that?” she demanded.
He grinned broadly. “You gave it to me when you didn’t recognize the Kieseritzky gambit. You’re not concentrating today.”
