there are sex toys…and then there are implements of torture.”
Jena smiled. “You mean there’s a difference?”
Dulcy caught herself rubbing her index finger and thumb against the decadent material of the nightgown and forced herself to place the lid back on the box. “I hope you got a receipt for this stuff, Jena,” she said softly, indicating the array of materials that seemed cruel even for a pet.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not you plan on returning the items yourself.”
Dulcy made a face and peered into the bag in which she’d instantly stuffed the highly wicked items that served as Jena’s gift. “Tell me you got them on the Internet?”
“Nope. There’s this great little shop downtown I know you’re going to love.”
Dulcy groaned and snatched the collar from Marie. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s this one for?” Marie asked, poking at a miniature version of the dog collar about two inches in diameter.
“Never mind.” Dulcy took that one, too, then put it in the bag with the other items that gave a whole new meaning to the word unmentionables.
She was aware of the slow song ending, which probably meant another fast song would soon start up. And Jena would undoubtedly pull them up for another fifteen-minute set. Dulcy didn’t think her feet could stand it. She found herself glancing toward the dance floor, only realizing why she’d done so when she spotted the man named Quinn being led off by the woman he’d just danced with. But rather than heading back toward his table, she was navigating a path toward the door and the lobby beyond. Dulcy quickly averted her gaze. She didn’t have to guess where they were heading. She looked down to find her hands clutching the bag, and released her grip. No doubt that couple could find something interesting to do with these items.
As expected, the band launched into another dance number and Jena virtually popped up from her seat. “Come on.”
Marie groaned but slid from the booth, while Dulcy shook her head. “I’m just going to go run these things up to my room before someone sees them and gets the wrong idea about me.”
What she really wanted to do was go strip out of her clothes and her heels, brush her teeth, pull the sheet up to her chin and veg with a really good movie…and think about what she could have been doing tonight had she had enough guts.
Jena leaned over the table toward her. “You’d better be back in fifteen or else I’m coming up after you.”
Dulcy smiled, knowing that despite her friend’s threat, she’d be more likely to curl up on the bed with her and steal whatever she was eating, along with the remote. “Deal.”
She gathered her gifts together and slid from the opposite side of the booth, giving Marie a sympathetic wave as Jena led her toward the dance floor. Well, she did have to give Jena some credit. The place was teeming with men who were exactly her type, but she hadn’t once wavered in her promise to make this Dulcy’s night. There had been one moment when Dulcy was afraid they were about to lose her—when a fresh-faced hockey player with a lopsided grin, a chin dimple and devilish eyes had stolen her for two whole dances—but Jena had finally peeled herself away from him and rejoined the party. Dulcy had decided to let slide the bit of paper, no doubt holding the player’s phone number, that Jena had slipped into her pocket.
The difference between the smoke-choked atmosphere of the club and the brightly lit, sparsely populated lobby was like night and day. And Dulcy felt immediately better. More like herself, more in control. She took a deep breath of the hotel air and blinked, slowing her step as the pulse of the music drifted farther and farther away. It had been so long since she’d actually been to a club, she had forgotten what it was like. The intimate lighting. The heat of too many young, single, needy bodies filling the room. The rhythm of the drum that seemed to vibrate across the floor and grip her heart. She and Jena had gone a few times when they were in undergrad school together. And again when Marie had come of age. But it had never really been her thing. Going to the theatre or out to a nice dinner, visiting with her friends—those had always been her preferred styles of entertainment.
And now she knew why. There was something about the wild environment…about merely being in a club that seemed to emphasize wantonness and willingness for experiences she only allowed herself to fantasize about, and never indulged in. What others, like Jena, saw as challenges, she saw as strictly dangerous.
She started to walk by the concierge’s desk, then backtracked, clutching her packages tightly to her side. “Excuse me, when does room service close for the night?”
The young, attractive man behind the desk openly eyed her and grinned. “Never, miss. They’re open twenty-four hours. With a limited menu after midnight.”
She found herself smiling back at him. “Good. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
She turned back toward the far hall and the elevators there, her heels clicking against the marble tiled floor. See, the concierge’s overt reaction to her, probably after having seen her come from the club, was proof positive of her verdict on clubs and clubbing. She thought the appropriate word nowadays was player but she couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, she certainly wasn’t one, and never would be.
She punched the elevator button, then stood back to wait. No. In eight days she was going to be Mrs. Brad Wheeler III. She grimaced. Why had she thought of it that way? She shook her head and dug through her purse for her room card key. But even she had to admit that while Brad’s financial status hadn’t influenced her decision to marry him one iota, it would certainly impact her life from here on out. She’d just gotten used to balancing her own checkbook, yet now she’d have an accountant and house manager to look after all that for her. It had been a challenge to remember when she’d last had the oil checked in her car, yet now she would have use of Brad’s in-house mechanic, who looked after his half dozen or so cars on a daily basis.
She pulled out her card key. Oh, yeah. Her life from here on out was definitely going to change. For the better, she firmly told herself. Who cared if personal privacy would be virtually nil? Her mother would have the money she’d had to do without for too long. And Dulcy would have Brad. That’s all she needed.
The elevator dinged open, and she stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor. The mirrored doors began sliding closed and she leaned against the back of the elevator and sighed. An inch before the doors would have closed altogether, a hand snaked through the opening. The doors bounced, then jerked back open.
Dulcy stared, suddenly dry mouthed, at the new arrival—all dark skinned, big grinned and looking so good she could eat him with a spoon.
Oh, yeah? If Brad was all she needed, why was she looking at the guy from the bar as if she wanted to order him up from room service?
3
TWO TIMES LUCKY, Quinn made a mental note to himself, because something like this didn’t happen to him every day. First this girl who could have come from one of those 1-900-babe hotline commercials literally drops into his lap…now he runs into her, alone, in the elevator.
He held the doors open with one hand and watched Dee scramble from where she was leaning against the wall. Her relaxed position had caused her skirt to inch farther up her long, long legs. The design of her white blouse was far too conservative to be called sexy, but the leather skirt hugged the body it was wrapped around to delectable perfection. No matter how hard she tried, he’d bet, she was never quite successful in covering up the sensuality that emanated from her like a seductive scent. A mystifying, evocative sexuality had ensnared him so completely in the scant few minutes they had spoken that he hadn’t been able to drum up enthusiasm for anyone else. He’d thought he might have something with the last girl he danced with. But when she propositioned him, he turned her down. So then she’d asked him to do her the favor of walking out of the