Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (14 page)
Ethan knew he should mentally be going over figures, jotting down his questions and generally conducting basic meeting preparations. The Panache executives and their attorneys would arrive any minute ready to begin the deal that would jump-start Eubanks Elegant Apparel’s national presence. His mind should have been in the zone, focused, ready to determine whether each i was dotted, each T crossed. But right now, he was extremely thankful that Sam Wyland, his business attorney, was a master in contract negotiations, because Ethan’s thoughts were clearly in another state. Florida, to be precise.
He assumed Clarise’s morning flight would have put her there by now. What was she doing? Strolling down a sandy beach while the breeze from the bay kissed her face? Swaying her curvaceous body to the beat of a jazz band? Cheering the street performers as they defied the laws of physics with their amazing feats? And why did it fascinate him so much to imagine the possibilities? Hadn’t he seen Clarise practically every weekday for the past three years? Spent every Friday afternoon with her, enjoying endless cups of caffeine and casual conversation? Teased her constantly about her ever-present guard and hoped she’d eventually let it down for someone? He should’ve slept peacefully last night knowing his encouragement had prompted her to live a little, but she’d never looked at him the way she had last night, and she’d damn never kept him up all night thinking about it.
He couldn’t count the number of Friday afternoons he’d kidded her about needing to get ready for her “hot date.” It’d been a running joke between them. They’d talk about his relationship woes, she’d skip the subject of her relationships entirely . . . then they’d part and go their separate ways with Ethan heading to his date where, typically, another woman tried to figure out why he refused to commit and Clarise heading to visit her eccentric grandmother, or straighten out her sister’s latest fiasco.
But Ethan knew she hadn’t foregone men completely. He’d actually seen her out a couple of times with a tall, thin guy who appeared mesmerized by Clarise’s every move. At the time, Ethan had been happy for her to have someone who was giving her the attention she deserved, but now, with the possibility of the guys in Tampa doing the same, Ethan’s jaw clenched.
He frowned, tunneled his fingers through his hair and concentrated on what she planned to do. He’d encouraged her to go to Tampa and show the world Clarise Robinson, unplugged. In no minced words, he’d instructed her to have a good time, but any way he looked at it, the potential for her to get hurt in that pursuit was enormous, more than Ethan cared to risk. And, as he’d tossed and turned throughout last night wondering exactly how far she’d go to let her hair down, Ethan couldn’t deny there were two reasons for his concern. One, that some sorry excuse for a human being would take advantage of his friend, and two, that a man, any man, would be touching Clarise. Period. Of the two, the second one packed the bigger punch because it shocked him to his core. After all this time trying to convince her to let go of her inhibitions and take an occasional walk on the wild side, you’d think he would be celebrating her attempt to do just that. However, celebrating was anything but what he was doing now. Brooding was a more accurate depiction. Why? Sure, he’d beat the hell out of anyone who made Clarise do anything she didn’t want to. That was only natural, wasn’t it? She was a friend, and any decent man went to battle for a friend done wrong. It was simply the nature of the testosterone beast. But he’d be lying if he said the only reason he was jetting to Tampa in a matter of hours was to provide her with physical protection. There was something else going on here, possibly something he hadn’t even realized existed until last night. Suddenly, the idea of Clarise being with a man didn’t fit the bill as one of their lighthearted, chummy Friday afternoon topics. Oh no, it brought on an entirely new emotion, one that Ethan hadn’t experienced for longer than he cared to admit, and he still hadn’t fathomed exactly why the green monster had reared its ugly head now. But it had, with a roaring vengeance.
Sure, Clarise had always impressed him with her sweetness, her shyness, and more than that, with her friendship. But last night, she’d provided a glimpse of another layer in the multifaceted composition of Clarise Robinson. A layer that made her want to perfect her shimmy before heading to Tampa. Sure, he’d been trying to get her to take the company trip for three years, but he really hadn’t ever expected her to go. That wasn’t the Clarise he knew. Which made him wonder . . .
What else did Clarise Robinson hide beneath the muted façade? And why, when he’d practically bared his soul to her during those Friday afternoon coffees, did he feel he’d barely scratched the surface of who she really was? What she cared about? Her goals? Her dreams? Her desires?
Desires.
The thing that had haunted him throughout his sleepless night. Clarise had downplayed her desires throughout their friendship, and last night’s glimpse of that part of her definitely fueled the sexual interest in Ethan that had been sparked at the Christmas party. How could it not? But he wasn’t traipsing down to Tampa because he wanted to find out more about this sexually interesting Clarise. He was traipsing to Tampa to find out what else his friend had been hiding and to make sure no bozo hurt her while she attempted to bring those secret desires to fruition.
He viewed the e-ticket itinerary he’d printed merely minutes ago. At five this afternoon, his flight would arrive in Tampa. An hour later, give or take, he’d be in the heart of Gasparilla madness, the preinvasion parades and parties. And, if all went as he planned, he’d personally witness a caterpillar’s conversion to a butterfly, then he’d personally destroy anyone who tried to clip her wings. His throat went parchment dry. Hell, he couldn’t wait. Ethan still hadn’t decided whether to announce his presence from the get-go. What exactly should he say? He straightened in his chair. The truth was usually the best option. “Clarise, I believe you’re thinking about finally letting go at Gasparilla this weekend, and in all honesty, I’m not sure that’d be a wise move, particularly if the guy you’re letting go with isn’t me.”
Like that would fly. How was he supposed to renege on everything he’d told her during the past three years? She was doing what he’d suggested, dammit, which should feel gratifying. Trouble was, he felt like hell. And he wondered what on earth he’d been thinking during all of those conversations or what he was thinking now, because Ethan couldn’t deny he was feeling something for his friend, something that crossed that friendship line by, oh, at least a country mile, and he had no business thinking it at all.
He couldn’t remember when he got less sleep than last night, tossing and turning, and unable to get her off his mind. More precisely, he couldn’t get the feeling of her curvy body against his off his mind. As a matter of fact, his sheet had looked like a tent the majority of the night courtesy of Clarise Robinson. His friend. And did that have anything to do with this odd surge of protectiveness? Jealousy? That he knew her in a relationship outside of sex? Was this how it felt to notice the woman first and then the body?
Thankfully, his father had accepted Jeff’s challenge, and Ethan’s brother would arrive in Birmingham in a matter of hours. With Jeff running things here, Ethan would have no reservations at all heading to Tampa for Gasparilla. He lifted the itinerary again. After the nightmare in Tampa last year—one of the few things in his life he hadn’t shared with Clarise, and for good reason—he’d been almost pleased when this morning’s acquisition had interfered, but now he couldn’t wait for the meeting to be over so he could get on that plane. Every minute wasted was a minute when someone else could be on the receiving end of Clarise’s sexy shimmy.
Ethan frowned. He’d told Clarise to find someone, many times, but who was he kidding? Yeah, he wanted her to set her inhibitions free in Gasparilla, let her hair down and discover her wild, sexy side, but he wanted it to happen . . . with him.
T
he preparade crowd on Bayshore Boulevard filled the sidewalk and spilled into the lively shops. Regardless of the January date, Tampa was hot and humid, with scents of alcohol, spicy cuisine and the salty Gulf tickling the air. Upbeat music belted out from balconies and street corners and coaxed excited partyers to dance with the captivating beat. The “corporate bonding” Ethan had encouraged wasn’t happening, with the entire group splitting up and heading their separate ways almost immediately upon arriving in Tampa this morning. The Children’s and Teens’ Departments heads decided to grab a cab and go to the kiddie parades, so they could check out the wardrobes of the youth at Gasparilla. Jesilyn, ever the perky, friendly female, had met a guy on the plane who was going to a beach wedding at an esteemed bed-and-breakfast inn. After merely visiting with him throughout the duration of the flight, she had an honest-to-goodness date to an honest-to-goodness wedding at the inn. Rachel and Miles Watkins, Formal Wear connoisseur and the guy Rachel called “sweet eye candy,” didn’t even unpack before they headed toward the beach for a “nice long walk on the sand,” though Clarise thought they looked more like they were heading for a nice long round of outdoor sex. Sex on the beach, just like her fantasy. Super. She’d assured all of them that she wanted to be on her own for her first night at Gasparilla, which was the truth. Goodness knows she couldn’t let herself go in front of her friends. Ride a plane with them, yes. Bare her boobs with them, no.
Clarise wedged her way through the clusters of people and attempted to maintain her smile when a hand groped beneath her black leather miniskirt instead of slapping the offending varmint like she wanted. She’d spent the entire day preparing for tonight’s parade, which would begin in about fifteen minutes, and she looked damn good, if she did say so herself. The brown strapless top was the perfect complement to her skirt, as Jadelle had promised.
“It brings out the depth of your eyes and the richness of your hair,” Shannon had added.
Clarise didn’t know about the eyes or hair, but it sure brought out her Robinson Treasures, and the fishnet stockings perfected her attempt at wild and wicked, she hoped. Of course, the three-inch heels she’d selected for the occasion were about to drive her crazy, particularly when they kept getting stuck in the street grates, but Clarise resolved the problem was a minute sacrifice for looking sexy. Judging by the sly comments and roving eyes, not to mention roaming hands, her earnest attempt at looking vixenish had worked.
She hadn’t known how to carry money, credit cards and lipstick while wearing so little. There were no pockets in her skirt and certainly no room to spare in her top, but the thin-strapped, tiny purse she’d bought this afternoon at one of the festival booths seemed an exact fit for tonight’s skimpy attire. Following the instructions the Tampa Police Department had provided, she wore the purse draped over her head so the strap crossed directly through the valley between her boobs. According to the police, women shouldn’t carry purses to the parades, but if they absolutely had to, the bag would be harder to snatch if it were carried in this manner. Personally, Clarise thought the technique made her look like she’d donned a pageant sash for the event. With the way she was dressed, the caption should read “Miss Most Likely To . . . ”
She swallowed past a hysterical giggle. If her college buddies could see her now, they’d have to revamp their bookworm, seminerd appraisal. And if her old high school classmates could, they’d surely reevaluate their goody-goody assessment of the valedictorian. And speaking of high school kids, a boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen wiggled his brows suggestively as she passed. “Ba-da-bing,” he pronounced, boldly eyeing her boobs.
Clarise did a quick check to make sure the things were still in hiding. From the drool on his pathetic excuse for a goatee, she wouldn’t have been surprised if the Robinson Jewels were in full view. Nope, still encased in brown fabric, although there was a bit of nipple action going on. She’d worn one of her new purchases, the flaming red merry widow, beneath her formfitting ensemble, mainly because she couldn’t wait to wear the darn thing and because she wanted to have on something supersexy to bolster her courage when she dropped her top.
Thank goodness all of her buddies had vacated the premises. She’d have a hard time keeping her nerve to go through with this if she knew her fellow department heads were watching the show. Fortunately, not one of the gorgeous hunks from the store had hung around the area of their condominium. They’d left the resort area entirely, in fact. And although Jake Riley had asked her if she wanted to “come along,” Clarise had said no, repeatedly—which didn’t put her any closer to fulfilling her fantasies, but oddly enough, she couldn’t see herself “baring and sharing” with Jake. Or anyone else, for that matter, except Ethan, and unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how she looked at it—he was six hundred miles away. Not exactly in viewing range of her upcoming shimmy.
If
she ever got the nerve to drop the brown tube top and show off the red merry widow.
She glanced downward again to check her . . . key points and realized the problem with the undergarment was twofold. One, a lack of support, which made her boobs hover a tad lower than usual. Granted, gravity hadn’t taken full force yet, though at thirty, it shouldn’t. And two, lack of coverage, with the thin lace providing a nonexistent barrier to keep her overly anxious nipples in their place. Plus, the purse strap running a path through the channel drew even more attention to the mountains on both sides, like a tiny stream traversing two boulders.
Clarise had to turn the opposite direction to get away from the hormone-happy teen’s glazed-over daze. Dang, she’d had her share of teenage boys giving her the once-over in high school, in spite of the oversized tops she wore, but she’d never in her life seen any of them with that tongue-hanging-out thing going on. It shouldn’t flatter her so much, particularly now that she was older, but amazingly, it did. She only hoped her outfit had the same effect on older males—at least ten years older. She wasn’t in the mood to get arrested for jailbait.