“She’s fat?”
“No. Well, not really huge or anything. Just normal size.”
“Okay, okay, never mind that. What about her hands? How was her technique? I mean, she’s a massage therapist.”
Vic shook his head. “Her hands were fine, and I didn’t even mind the smell that much.”
“What smell?”
“It’s this special medicinal lotion she uses for massage. She’s allergic to the regular kinds. It smells kind of like mothballs, but it wasn’t that strong.”
Bobby’s eyes bulged, and his lips drew into a grimace. “Did she put that stuff on you?”
“No, of course not. The scent of the lotion sticks to her, she said, no matter how many times she washes. I could smell it just standing next to her. Anyway, there was no massage. I just took her home, like I told you I would do.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t get lucky.”
“It all depends on how you look at it.” With that he left Bobby to mull over his own good luck. He felt only a twinge of guilt at the outrageous lies he’d told. Someday Bobby would probably talk to Phoebe and discover the truth, but Vic would deal with that when the time came.
A more immediate problem was what to do with Angela tonight—if she even let him through the door after the high-handed way he’d finagled a date from her. Ordinarily, for a late-night rendezvous, he would take a woman to a coffeehouse or sidewalk café for a bite to eat and some good conversation. But this situation with Angela demanded something unusual.
She definitely responded to an element of mystery. So he had to think of something unexpected, a little bit daring, a little risqué.
Did her building have a flat roof? he wondered.
ANGELA HATED EVERYTHING in her closet. Her clothes were so mundane, so ordinary, and much too conservative. Vic would be here in fifteen minutes, and she still wasn’t dressed.
Finally she settled on her all-purpose spaghetti-strapped black dress. She could snazz it up with a beaded bolero vest and heels, or dress it down with a funky hat and lace-up boots, depending on where they were going. Whatever their destination, she would insist on driving. She couldn’t negotiate the back of a motorcycle in a short dress.
She was ashamed of herself that she hadn’t even considered not going. She hated it when a man had to have his way, when they brushed aside her ideas and suggestions as insignificant. Why, then, did those habits seem intriguing and exciting in Vic?
She’d always been independent, had never let anyone lead her around by the nose. Maybe it was the novelty of surrendering control, she reasoned as she debated over what color hose to wear. Black, maybe. She started to grab some black panty hose. Then she spotted a pair of stockings that required a garter belt.
Feeling naughty, she pulled them out of the drawer, running the smooth silk over the back of her hand. She’d bought them on a whim and never worn them, but tonight seemed like a good time—they made her feel sexy. Not that she needed any artificial stimulation when Vic was around. She felt as if she could outsex Madonna when he looked at her with those electric blue eyes.
Angela didn’t know what to do with her hair. Normally she wore it in a ponytail or braid, but that seemed too youthful for the way she felt tonight. She thought about pinning it up. Did guys ever really take a girl’s hairpins out one by one so her hair could tumble over her shoulders, all sexy and tousled? She was afraid it wouldn’t work in real life the way it did in movies, so she left her hair loose. She decided she liked the way the curled ends brushed her bare shoulders.
She was dressed and ready at ten minutes to ten. Since she hated watching the clock, waiting for a date to pick her up, she got to work on a neglected craft project, a cross-stitched pillow for a cousin who was getting married this summer. If Vic stood her up, at least she would have something to show for the evening.
The next time she looked up at the clock, it was ten-fifteen. She threw her needlework aside in disgust. The jerk had changed his mind!
It was for the better, she told herself. She had no business going out with a man like that. He was a threat to her well-ordered world, not to mention her sanity. She couldn’t think rationally when he was around.
Just when she’d decided to change into her nightgown, a knock came at the door. Her heart jumped into her throat. If it was Vic, he ought to be ringing her from the front security door.
“Just a minute!” she called out, sliding her feet back into her black flats and zipping up her dress. If it was Vic, she’d give him an earful. Twenty minutes late, and not even a phone call to let her know.
Full of righteous indignation, she threw open the door, and any lecture she might have delivered died in her throat. Lord, the man was gorgeous, but in a tuxedo he was incredible. He didn’t have that smooth, urbane James Bond look, but somehow he appeared oddly at ease in the formal wear. She wouldn’t have expected that.
“How did you get through the security door?” she blurted out in the way of greeting.
“Your neighbor, Mrs. Gibbons, let me in.”
Mrs. Gibbons? She was the old lady on the first floor who was terrified of burglars and muggers. She had three dead bolts on her door and required three pieces of ID before she’d let her own sister in. It was comforting to know that Angela wasn’t the only female susceptible to Vic’s charms.
“You look hot,” Vic added, his voice husky.
A surge of feminine pleasure washed through her. She murmured her thanks, then moved aside to let him in. He looked out of place in her fussy, feminine living room, and she decided right then and there to redecorate. It looked as if a spinster lived here. She would use Vic as the focal point of the decor.
“Sit down, and I’ll go change,” she said. “I hadn’t realized we were going formal.”
He grabbed her arm before she could make good her escape. “You look just fine for where we’re going.”
“Oh, but I have this little beaded vest….” She didn’t finish outlining her wardrobe possibilities to him. His hot gaze struck her absolutely dumb. Before she knew it he had his arms around her, and they were kissing.
It was a beautiful kiss, steamy, full of passion, yet oddly she knew it was just a kiss to be enjoyed for its own sake. This was a guy who knew how to kiss. He nipped at her lips, then moved in for the kill, covering her mouth with his, using a gentle but insistent pressure. He let his tongue flirt with hers, then just when she thought she was going to pass out from overwhelming sensations, he backed off to kiss her neck, her ear, her forehead.
He didn’t press his advantage, for which she was grateful. She had hours yet to resist him.
Chapter Three
Angela eased away from Vic. “Let me get the vest anyway,” she said. The husky breathlessness in her voice turned him on almost as much as the kiss had. “I want to look my best. Please sit down. I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, but he didn’t sit. He’d figured out one of Angela’s buttons—she liked to be in control. The less he allowed her to dictate to him, even with something as trivial as whether he should sit or stand, the more off balance she would be.
As she left the room, Vic contemplated her shapely legs, revealed to midthigh and encased in sheer black silk. He’d never seen her legs before, though he’d fantasized about them.
They were better than he’d dreamed, slender but with calf and thigh muscles clearly defined.
Vic had thought Angela looked quite sexy enough in her work clothes. There was something very sensual about her, a quality that would shine through even if she wore a nun’s habit. But Angela in a short, figure-revealing black dress literally