Reunion Girls (13 page)

"Queen Bee is out to get me, Bomb," Gabrielle said urgently. "Have you heard this track? It's blowing up on Hot Jams 97 right now. Shaniqua Jackson's all over it. This could get ugly for me."

"Ah . . . oh, yeah, baby . . . grind it . . . work it, girl . . . work it."

Gabrielle sat on the edge of the bed, a cauldron of anger, fear, and frustration as her producer/Svengali/lover/whatever ignored her and spoke in thick, broken whispers to the stripper. "Bomb!" Gabrielle screamed.

"Calm down, baby. Queen Bee's just making a little noise. Nothing will come of it. Don't worry. I can handle her."

"Who do you think I am, Bomb? You can't parade around with Queen Bee in public, hang out in strip bars, and expect me to keep your bed warm in New York like some clueless housewife! This is bullshit!"

"Damn right, it's bullshit!" he shouted back. "No woman tells me what I can't do! I run this show! You know that! Queen Bee was a little side thing for me. We had some fun. I tossed her a bone. And that's my business. Not yours!"

"I think it is my business," Gabrielle said savagely. "Especially if you want to keep me in your bed and on your label."

There was a long, intense silence.

"Baby, you better hang up this phone and pull yourself together," AKA Bomb Threat advised. There was a sinister edge to his words. "I created Brown Sugar. But I'll tear her down, too."

And then the line went dead.

Whatever instinct she possessed to play this thing cool vanished. Gabrielle dressed quickly in Chanel leggings, a pair of brown Timberland boots, and a tight white shirt emblazoned with the phrase TOO MUCH MISTER in a red, lipstick-like scrawl.

Baby Bear was hanging in the outer seating area, eating pizza and watching
Scarface
on an iPad. The moment he saw Gabrielle, he jumped to attention.

"Get the limo," she said.

"Where are we going?" Baby Bear asked.

Gabrielle could feel the adrenaline rising, the blood pumping. "On a bitch hunt. So stay close. There could be serious trouble tonight."

The It Parade

by Jinx Wiatt

Fill in the Blanks

It just doesn't seem fair that a certain party-planning sophisticate should get her pick of the hottest guys around. First it was the ultimate golden boy and America's favorite prince. Now it's a man with international flavor, a certain polo player who's got women in Manhattan suffering from fainting spells (yes—that age-old condition). Don't be too jealous, though. A rumor is swirling that Mr. Heartthrob is hiding a dirty little secret.

Lara

LARA SLIPPED UNDER THE COVERS, content in the knowledge that her day had ended with a few notable successes. She had whipped a nasty hangover. There was the sweet satisfaction in knowing that Bizzie Gruzart would soon be informed that Mio and Mako Kometani had elected Regrets Only to plan their birthday party. And her drinking date with Babe had been surprisingly pleasant, free of awkward silences and unspoken resentments.

Just as she shut her eyes, the telephone jangled to life.

Startled, Lara checked the ID screen, not recognizing the number. She glanced at the clock, noted the after-midnight hour, and answered sharply. "Hello?"

"You're awake." It was the thick and richly accented voice of Joaquin Cruz.

"How did you get this number?" Lara hissed. "And why are you calling at such an indecent hour?"

"A mutual acquaintance gave me your number."

"And who might that be?" Lara demanded.

"I'll never tell," Joaquin teased. "As for the indecent hour, it's only appropriate, since I'm having indecent thoughts." One beat. "About you."

Lara felt a warmth take over her body. She let out a sigh of what she hoped sounded like exasperation. "If this is an obscene phone call—"

"Just say the word. It can be."

"It's after midnight. This is rude and disrespectful."

"I'm sorry. Perhaps I can try again tomorrow. What time do you prefer obscene calls?"

Against all urges to do otherwise, Lara found herself responding to his little joke.

"I made you laugh," Joaquin said. "This is promising."

"It's been a long day. I'm delirious," Lara countered.

"Deliriously horny, I hope."

Lara experienced a tingle between her legs. Feeling hot all of a sudden, she pushed away the covers. "Are you sure you have the right number? You're talking like I'm some barmaid who served you a beer last week."

He pretended to be shocked. "You mean this isn't Angie, the Hooters waitress?"

She laughed again.

"My offer still stands," Joaquin said.

"And what offer would that be?" Lara inquired. She already knew what it was, but she wanted to hear him say it again.

"To make you forget Dean Paul Lockhart."

Though every instinct told her to hang up, Lara held on. A meaningful silence loomed. Her heart quickened. Finally, she spoke. "Even a Hooters girl deserves a better line than that."

"That's disappointing to hear," Joaquin murmured. "I thought it was a good line. Confident and full of exciting possibility."

"Try blind arrogance," Lara said.

"You don't believe I can deliver on the promise?"

This time she sighed wearily. The conversation was titillating, but she knew that nothing would ever come of it. "It's late, Joaquin. Too late for games."

"I'm not playing a game," he said earnestly.

"Try your luck at a bar. Good night." She moved to break the connection.

"I bet you've never received one of these before," Joaquin said. "Or placed one, either."

Lara hesitated. Now he had her curious. She put the phone back to her ear. "What are you talking about?"

"I believe the American phrase is . . .
booty call."

She smiled at his pronunciation. He made it sound so formal and respectable. "You're right on both counts."

"When you go to bed alone, don't you ever wish someone was there with you? Not to hold you. But to please you. To leave you so spent and satisfied that you sleep like a baby until the next morning. Don't you ever crave that?"

Lara didn't quite know how to respond. Because she was craving it right now. "I'm only human," she whispered frankly. "Of course I have those occasional desires. And if I find myself alone with them, I just imagine George Clooney, and then I fall asleep with a smile on my face."

Joaquin laughed. "I'm better than George Clooney."

"You really are full of yourself, aren't you?"

"I'm just being honest."

"That's the excuse of every narcissist."

"How can George Clooney be better than me? He's somewhere in California, on location for a film, or at his villa in Italy." Joaquin paused dramatically. "And I'm standing right outside your building."

Lara bolted upright and dashed to the window, the cordless firmly planted against her ear. Slowly, she parted the heavy curtains.

Joaquin stood under a streetlight, looking up at her. "Turn on a light. I can't see what you're wearing. Or not wearing for that matter."

Lara didn't move. She just stared at him in the darkness. After several long seconds, she spoke. "I think you have a problem."

"Invite me up. We can talk about it."

"Invite you up?"
Lara didn't have to try for her incredulous tone. It spilled out naturally. "I barely know you, and you're calling me in the middle of the night from outside my building. I should be dialing the police."

"To report a stalker?"

"Exactly."

"They'll just advise you not to talk so long next time. That tends to encourage stalkers."

Lara's smile was reluctant. But it was there. "Go home, Joaquin. Don't you ever sleep?"

"I'm restless tonight. I was hoping you were, too." He peered up at her.

She peered down at him.

"One kiss."

"What?" She pretended not to understand. But she did. And even worse, a vital part of her wanted to oblige him.

"You can't send me home like this. Just one kiss. After that, I'll leave. I promise."

"This is insane."

"You know what they say. Desire has a mind all its own."

"Who says that?"

"People who act on it," Joaquin said matter-of-factly.

Lara bit down on her lower lip. She was perilously close to buzzing him up. Right away, the potential obstacles started tumbling over themselves in her mind. Queenie would bark up a storm. Then Privi would wake up and ask a million questions. There was also the matter of the overnight moisture mask slathered across Lara's face. She would have to rinse that off before any kissing could commence. So much for spontaneity.
 

A taxi stopped in front of the building. Alex Gilbert, a stockbroker and her neighbor on the seventh floor, tumbled out of the backseat holding the hand of a cheap-looking date.

She watched as Joaquin covered the cellular mouthpiece with his palm and engaged them in quick conversation, pointing up at Lara.

Alex glanced upward, waving excitedly.

Lara raised a tentative hand. What on earth was Joaquin saying?

And then they all disappeared toward the entrance.

Suddenly, she understood his plan. Lara experienced a mounting panic.

"Joaquin! Don't you dare!"

He returned to the line. "What was that?"

"I know what you're doing! Don't come up here! You're not invited!"

"I'm having a hard time hearing you. Damn cell phones. Must be the elevator. It's unit 703, right? Alex told me. Nice guy. Have you met Michelle? They just started seeing each other, but I think she's a keeper."

Lara felt a helpless horror mixed with a sensual excitement. "Don't press the buzzer! You'll wake up my maid!" She hung up, tossed the phone onto the bed, and dashed into the bathroom to wash off the treatment mask. Covering her pink babydoll-tee and panties set with a white terry-cloth robe, she stared into the mirror. Her long hair was freshly shampooed and pulled back in a scrunchie. She looked scrubbed clean and golden.

Queenie pranced into the bathroom and licked her ankle.

Lara glanced down, feeling a wave of guilt over Queenie's obvious consternation. The Maltese wanted Lara back in bed pronto. Lovingly, she scooped up Queenie and carried her back to her favorite spot, bunching up the pillows and covers to maximize her comfort, hoping to mollify her high-maintenance pet.

But seconds after Lara closed the bedroom door, she heard Queenie scratching on the other side.

"It's okay, angel. Go to sleep."

Queenie began to bark.

"Queenie, stop!" Lara hissed, more sharply than she intended. "You'll wake up Privi."

More scratching. A slight whine. But at least the barking stopped.

Lara sighed. Then she breathlessly ran to the front door and opened it.

Joaquin just stood there, leaning against the frame.

For a moment, Lara simply drank him in. Wearing a tight black turtleneck and snug but broken-in jeans, he looked more gorgeous than any man had a right to be. She narrowed her gaze, playing up an anger that strangely wasn't there. "Alex should have never let you in the building or told you where I live. Tomorrow morning I'm reporting him to the co-op board."

Joaquin reached for the tie on Lara's robe and tugged her closer. "I'm only interested in what you plan to do to me."

The breath caught in Lara's throat. Just as well, because she didn't know what to say. The way he had come here tonight—unannounced, after hours, full of no-nonsense come-ons and crude promises—she found it exceedingly sexy. It was so against her nature. But he brought out something dormant in her.

Queenie cranked up the barking again.

Lara groaned, knowing that Privi would be out here at any moment unless she did something fast. Impulsively, she yanked Joaquin inside and pulled him into the bedroom.

His introduction to Queenie proved awkward. She growled at him, then sought refuge underneath the bed. But the barking stopped. Thank God.

Lara laughed softly, a nervous reaction to the hidden part of her that was glad she had Joaquin Cruz all alone right now.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Nothing . . . I . . . I just can't believe I'm doing this."

He smiled, inching closer, trapping her against the lingerie chest. "Doing what?"

"You said one kiss," Lara reminded him.

"I lied." And then Joaquin's mouth was on hers, his tongue darting in and out, his breath quickening, his hands moving under her robe, skating up her legs, her thighs, her torso, then around the outline of her breasts.

Lara stared at him, eyes widening, mind and body in revolutionary war. To stop him or to let him go on? That was the question. Deep down, she knew that the solution to her general ambivalence about sex stood right here, pressed against her. Sure, there had been other men since Dean Paul. Alan, the distinguished art dealer, old enough to be her father. Miles, the legal analyst for the cable network, with the wandering eye. Garrett, the dark, brooding professional tennis player who routinely made it to the finals but could never win a Grand Slam title.

None of them had commanded her arousal. Not like this. With them it had been merely pleasant ardor. But right now she felt naked need. Joaquin's hands were brushing across the soft cotton of her top, his thumbs playing a vibrato across the erect, tender buds of her nipples.

He moved closer and held it there, letting her feel the growing erection in his jeans, tracing the outline of her lips with his tongue.

Finn's gossip played in her mind. Where there's smoke, there's fire. The old adage proved true again. Even confined by jeans, it seemed to have a life of its own. It was larger, thicker, and harder than anything she had ever felt.

Lara clung to him, arrowing her body up to experience more, every layer of societal hang-up stripping away. It was practically the middle of the night. He had come to her like a phantom lover. She could take this delicious journey in secret. Nobody would ever know. Suddenly only aware of ravenous impulse, she pushed up his turtleneck, marveling at the dark hairs that gathered in impossible thickness on the path that led to his . . . Oh, God, she could barely think it, much less say it.