Books by Maggie Shayne (48 page)

Richard lowered his head. Oh, yeah, they were his type of women all right. Tall, leggy, lean, gorgeous, vain, and well informed on the latest hot colors, fabrics, vacation spots, and advances in laser surgery, even if they couldn’t name the capitals of their own states. Frankly, since he’d been forced to let the best secretary he’d ever had go so he could give his bubbleheaded niece a job, he’d had his fill of that kind of woman. Babs was that kind of woman.
She
ought to be modeling underwear.

He wanted his efficient, myopic, conservative Miss Bis-well back.

“Uncle Riiii-charrd,” came the singsong voice that could set his teeth on edge in a single note.

Richard reached across his desk and pushed the button on the intercom. “You’re supposed to call me ‘Mr. Gable’ at work, Babs.”

A high-pitched titter came back. “Sorry. I thought I’d tell you that you just had a message from Fate.”

“I did?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Richard looked across the office at his brother, who was biting his lip to keep from grinning. “Babs, um, do you think perhaps it might have been ... Kate?”

There was a long silence. “Well, I guess it might have been.”

“Well, now, let’s see. Did she call to tell you my reason for living, Babs, or did she just want to say hello?”

He could almost see his sister’s youngest child searching her empty head for the answer. “She wanted to know if you were planning anything special for Valentine’s Day.”

His throat went dry. It was Kate. Would have been better, though, if it had been Fate, calling to say he was going to hell in a handbasket. “And what did you tell her?” he forced himself to ask.

Her voice came back, brighter than ever. “Same thing I told Heidi and Fawn,” she chirped. “That you’d be at the Valentine’s Day Ball at the Westcott Room at eight o’clock sharp.”

She sounded as if she thought she deserved a raise and a promotion for being so efficient. Ending the intercom connection, Richard gave Michael a desperate look. “Make that three dates.”

“And one perfect excuse.” Michael held up the ticket. “Or do you want them all showing up at the ball at eight and meeting each other?”

Running a hand through his hair, Richard sighed his surrender and depressed the button again. “Babs?”

“Oh!” she squeaked. “You scared me! What?”

He closed his eyes. It was probably not a good idea to have Babs call Heidi and Fawn and Kate with his regrets. “Never mind, hon. I’ll take care of it myself.” He walked over to his brother, took the ticket. “This is going to cost me a small fortune in flowers, candy, and apologies,” he told Michael.

“Don’t bother with the candy, Richard. They’re models, remember?”

It was, Richard thought, a good point.

“I cannot believe I am doing this.”

“Oh, be quiet and suck in!” Kayla slid the zipper up as Martha Jane held her breath. “There!” she said, stepping back. “What do you think?”

Models were running back and forth in various states of undress, all of them at least six inches taller than Martha Jane was, even though she had donned stiletto heels in an effort to appear taller. She felt as insignificant among them as a crow among swans as she lifted her head to the full-length-and-then-some mirror.

Then she widened her eyes. She didn’t
look
insignificant or crowlike at all. Her first thought was that she really ought to put on her glasses, but she knew full well she could see up close without them. It was distances that gave her trouble. Kayla had worked wonders on her hair, making it seem fuller and wilder and glossier all at once simply by her clever use of hairbrush and blow-dryer. It was a big, fluffy, sexy, mink-colored mane now, rather than the straight, lifeless tresses she usually kept captive in a tight bun. “Wow,” Martha Jane whispered.

“I told you. You look incredible.”

“I look ... like someone else.” Martha Jane eyed herself. Her body was hugged tightly by white leather. The high-cut leg openings and white open-toed spike-heeled shoes made her short legs seem longer, and the white stockings she wore were topped with wide bands of elasticized lace. But the amazing thing was the way the scrap of leather managed to make her waist look so small. And ... other things look... gravity-proof.

“I have
cleavage
,” she said, staring at the gentle swells as if they were foreign objects that had suddenly landed on her home planet.

“There’s Dream Bra technology built into every piece I create,” Kayla announced proudly. She stood beside Martha Jane, wearing a short red baby doll that was almost as transparent as glass. Underneath it were a red-sequined Dream Bra and matching thong panties. Her stockings were red, as were her shoes, and she wore a little headband with a pair of plastic devil horns.

“Here, get the gloves on.” Kayla handed her a pair of long white gloves, then pulled on her own red ones.

Sighing, incredibly uncertain, and feeling a flutter of panic in her chest, Martha Jane put the gloves on and lowered her mask. It was white, like the rest of the outfit, with tipped-up corners accented in white feathers. It was supposed to allude to the wings of an angel. Right now, Martha Jane thought, she felt more like a chicken.

The music Kayla had chosen—Robert Palmer’s “Simply Irresistible”—came crashing over the loudspeaker, and the sultry voice of the female emcee drifted in, announcing the first-ever showing from a new designer. Kayla grabbed Martha Jane by the arm. “Come on! This is it!” She left Martha Jane in the curtained area just off stage left, then raced around to the other side, her heels clicking all the way.

Martha Jane looked across the stage and saw the fuzzy red outline of Kayla waiting on the other side. This meant everything to her friend. Everything. It meant a great deal to Martha Jane as well. It was important. She could do this.

“I give you,” the emcee said, “Kayla Hart’s brand-new line of fantasy lingerie, Leather and Lace!”

The music boomed louder. Martha Jane held Kayla’s gaze—or rather, tried to focus on where that gaze would be—and counted off. On three she took a deep breath and stepped forward. She concentrated on remembering everything Kayla had told her about walking onto that runway. Left foot, right foot, legs crossing in front of each other with every carefully placed step. Back straight, chin up. Eyes wide and not squinting in the bright lights. Lips slightly turned up in a mysterious almost-smile, but not a full-blown one. Keep them slightly parted, and moist. Move the hips with every step.

She made it to the center of the stage, where she and Kayla stopped at the same moment, just the way they’d planned it. A soft swell of applause started, then grew. Kayla caught Martha Jane’s eye, and Martha Jane took the signal and began her solitary trek forward along the long, narrow runway, between the lights that lined its sides, heels clicking. Cameras flashed, but the lights were too bright to allow her to see any faces in the crowd—not that she could have seen them anyway without her glasses. She tried to focus on what the emcee read from the card Kayla had provided. Something about the butter-soft leather of the “Angel” ensemble. Something about the built-in Dream Bra.

Martha Jane stopped at the end of the runway, one foot in front of the other, pivoted, pivoted again, turned around fully as the applause suddenly swelled, and made her way back. She kept going, right off the stage as Kayla started down the runway in her “Devil” costume.

Once backstage, Martha Jane felt her knees go weak and her stomach clench up a little bit, but beyond that, there was no paralyzing reaction. No horrible sense of shame. In fact, she felt... good. Those people had cheered for her. She lifted her gaze, looked into the mirror. A stranger looked back at her. An utterly feminine, utterly desirable, sexy female looked back at her. The kind of woman who could bring a man like Richard Gable to his knees. The kind of woman she’d always secretly wished she could be.

“Damn!” she whispered. “Kayla was right—I do feel different.”

But there was no time to give the feeling the substantial amount of thought and analysis it needed. She had two more outfits to model, the most outrageous one saved for last. She swallowed her shyness, her inhibitions, and found it far easier to do than she had expected. She rapidly yanked off her angel getup and pulled on a black-velvet bodysuit with cat ears and a detachable tail. She had to change her gloves and mask as well, and pull on the tall, shiny, spike-heeled thigh-high boots. But she did it in time. She was ready to walk out there again by the time Kayla got back.

Oddly, she didn’t have to force herself this time. Instinct told her that if this crowd had liked the first getup she’d worn, they were going to like this one even better. She almost smiled when she stepped out onto the stage. And she didn’t have to remind herself to move slowly, to take her time, so Kayla would have enough time to get changed. She walked slowly, a little slinkiness in her step to keep to the feline motif. At center stage, just as planned, she paused, turned to one side, then the other. The applause came louder and louder. She really was doing this, and apparently the crowd was believing the lie—that she
was
this she-cat she was pretending to be. Amazing.

She walked slowly along the runway. At the end, she reached behind her, just as she and Kayla had rehearsed. She removed the detachable “tail” and ran it slowly through her fingers, then snapped it hard on the stage to demonstrate how it doubled as a playful velvet whip. It made a satisfying crack and the audience gasped, then burst into wild applause as Martha Jane wound the tail up, turned, and moved slowly back. They were going wild, shouting for more. A wolf whistle pierced the din, and she almost burst out laughing.

A wolf whistle, aimed at plain Martha Jane Biswell. Imagine that!

One more outfit to go, she thought. Just one more. She’d thought it the worst one of them all, at first. Now she thought maybe it was going to be the best. Certainly it was the most shocking. The most taboo. The most...
sinful
.

She stepped backstage, passing Kayla on the way.

“Is that a smile?” Kayla whispered as she passed. “I knew it! You’re a closet sex kitten, Biswell! I knew it all along!”

Martha Jane stuck out her tongue and picked up the pace, slipping quickly into the final outfit. It was made almost entirely of leather straps with silver buckles. They crisscrossed her entire torso. There was actually no more of her showing than there would have been had she been wearing a bikini—but it seemed like more. A lot more. Still, black leather cupped her breasts and bottom and covered her where she needed covering, held in place by the straps that ran from top to bottom, crisscrossed her middle, encircled her shoulders, and wove their way down her back.

That wasn’t the part of the outfit that made it seem so outrageous, though. The mask that went with this one was made to look just like a blindfold, except that, of course, she could see through it. And the little satin-covered bracelets she wore on both wrists had tiny chains hanging from them, which could be linked together. When Kayla came prancing off stage, she paused long enough to hook the chains behind Martha Jane’s back.

“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.

Kayla’s eyes were gleaming and she was smiling ear to ear. Martha Jane swallowed hard and nodded. “How do you think it’s going?”

“Oh, they’re loving it! And this will be the clincher! Remember, walk tall, head tipped slightly back, chest out, shoulders back. Okay?”

“I remember. I can’t walk any other way in this state, anyway.”

“Great! Go!”

The music throbbed, and Martha Jane stepped out onto the stage. The crowd went dead silent. Not a sound came. Not a breath, she thought. Swallowing hard, she moved to the center, and the tapping of her spike heels seemed louder than anything she’d ever heard before. She paused at center stage, turned left, and right, then started along the runway. She’d lost them, she thought, wishing she could hurry. But that wasn’t an option. She was afraid to walk fast, because if she lost her balance, she would fall on her face. In fact, she was probably walking slower than she had before.

At any rate, she made it to the very end of the runway, and stopped.

Slowly, the clapping began. Bit by bit. Louder, and then louder still. And then it was thunderous, deafening. Martha Jane was startled, but mostly relieved. Then, as the applause went on and on, that other feeling returned to overwhelm everything else. She felt... sexual. She felt desirable and physical and feminine. Earthy. Female. Powerful. They were applauding for Kayla’s designs, yes—but
she
was the one making them look this good. She’d never believed herself capable of it. Of being ... sexy.

Smiling, almost giddy with this newfound sense of her-self as a woman, she pivoted and headed back. She almost wished Richard Gable
could
see her this way!

Kayla passed her on the way out, wearing regular clothes again—if you could call them regular. She was gorgeous, and as the emcee introduced her as the designer of this bold new line, she paused and gripped Martha Jane’s shoulder. “Omigod,” she whispered. “Martha Jane ...
look
.”

Martha Jane’s back was to the crowd, as she’d been leaving the stage, but she turned now and squinted toward the audience. When the stage lights dimmed, she could see them—not clearly, but enough. They were getting up, one by one, rising to their feet. A standing ovation for Kayla’s line. They loved it! They loved Kayla and they loved Martha Jane. Kayla’s dream was coming true. And she was gripping Martha Jane’s arm so tightly that Martha Jane had no choice but to step onto the runway once more, as Kayla received her glory.

Halfway out, Kayla stopped and released her grip on Martha Jane’s hand to blow a kiss to the crowd, and Martha Jane pivoted, intending to make a quick escape. But she pivoted too fast, and her damned hands were still hooked together behind her back. She wobbled, teetered, flapped her elbows in a useless effort to regain her balance. In that instant she thanked her stars that the spotlight and all eyes were on Kayla, who had continued on to the end of the runway alone—and then Martha Jane went over the side.

There was a thud as her back hit the floor, fortunately only a few feet below her. It knocked the wind out of her, and she couldn’t even speak for a heartbeat. Shaking off the impact, Martha Jane managed to work her arms down the backs of her legs, and push her feet through them so they were linked in front of her, rather than behind her. She sat up, and though, clumsy without the use of her hands, she got as far as her knees before she realized there was a man standing in front of her. His hands were on her shoulders, as if he were going to try to help her up, but he had frozen in the middle of it. And no wonder, with her nose about an inch from his zipper. A zipper that seemed to be ... swelling, she thought, blinking.

She swallowed her embarrassment, ignored the little devil voice inside her that wanted to laugh and shout at this new feminine power, and forced herself to tip her head back and look him in the eye.

Richard Gable stared down at her, too close to be a mistake or a product of her bad eyesight, and he said, “I think I dreamed something like this last night.”

She closed her eyes, mortified that he should see her like this.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he whispered “You were the hottest model up there all night. Believe me, I know. What’s your name, anyway? I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

She blinked, frowned ... and realized she was still wearing the mask. He didn’t recognize her! The mortification vanished. Something else replaced it. A kind of triumph. He’d said she was the hottest model up there. That was good, right? Her. His efficient little ex-secretary. Miss Biswell, hotter than any of the bimbos he’d preferred over her for so long. Hotter than any of the women he’d fallen all over himself trying to get into bed while ignoring the woman right under his nose who was halfway in love with him.

“My name?”

He nodded, smiling.

“It’s, uh, Valentine. Yes—it’s Valentine,” she lied, trying to keep her voice very soft and slightly deeper than normal so he wouldn’t recognize it. The result was a sultry-sounding purr.

“Yeah? Well, you’re the nicest Valentine I ever got.” His smile deepened. “I’m Richard. Nice to meet you.” His hands were still on her shoulders, his crotch still an inch from her face. “I, um, I hate to offer, but can I help you up?”

She looked up, and some demon woman she didn’t even recognize said, “If you insist,” and sent him a devilish half smile.

He looked as if she’d zapped him with a stun gun. “Damn, woman,” he said, sounding a little breathless. “You’re deadly, aren’t you?” He gripped her outer arms and helped her to her feet, a motion that brought her body very close to his. He remained there, close to her, not speaking.