The fantasy that was the strongest was anything but politically correct.
Herself, bent over, thighs spread. Clutching the wrought iron banister, bracing herself as he penetrated her from behind. That thick shaft, that big blunt knob pushing between her labia. Opening her. The powerful presence of his body behind hers, those warm hands gripping her. Thrusting and pumping. Filling her completely. Taking her.
The feeling swelled up, lifted her, hurled her off the cliff.
She was sobbing when she came back to reality, her body still wrenched amd racked by jolts of pleasure. Still in one piece. Still Becca.
She got up, bumping into the furniture without her glasses.
Damn. Her glasses. She’d forgotten all about them in her frantic hurry to get away. She’d left them by the side of the swimming pool. Along with the mostly empty bottle of wine and…oh, God.
The keys. The poolhouse key had been on the A-frame’s key ring. The keys to Jerome’s house. Oh, no, no, no.
That was terrible. She couldn’t face a week on a deserted island alone in a myopic blur. Nor could she go back to Marla and tell her she’d lost the keys to Jerome’s house. How could she justify it? Because the neighbor was rude? Because he had seen her naked when she skinny-dipped? Please. Marla already considered her a fluffy-tailed, persnickety little rabbit with a twitching pink nose. Little Miss Nervous Wreck.
God, she was sick of being condescended to. By Justin, Kaia, Marla, Mr. Big. Even her little brother and sister were guilty of it.
She gathered up every last scrap of that lingerie, and tossed it into the fire. It smoldered, smothered by the synthetic fabrics.
Tomorrow morning she would march over to retrieve her belongings. And, incidentally, take the opportunity to tell that guy exactly what she thought of him. While sober. And clothed.
Her pride depended on it. As wobbly and fragile as it was right now, it simply could not take another hit.
Chapter
5
Dr. Richard Mathes levered himself up from the damp, quivering body of his mistress and paused to enjoy the view. The charmingly submissive position, her double-jointed flexibility, the satin babydoll nightie shoved seductively up over her breasts—it was perfect.
His gaze turned critical as he observed the un-dynamic way that her breasts perched upon her rib cage. The colleague he’d referred Diana to for the breast enhancement surgery had overdone it. Smaller implants would have been better. Only in this position was the defect so evident, but unfortunately, this was one of his favorites. He liked to pin her ankles down on either side of her head and pound away with bruising force. It was the best way to wind down after a long stint in the operating room.
“Amazing.” Diana licked her full lips, and wiggled as he slipped out of her body, contracting her vaginal muscles as if to trap him inside her. “I knew it would be like this today. You were amazing with Jimmie.”
Jimmie Matlock was the sixteen-year-old boy who had gotten a new heart that day in a seven-hour surgery. Diana, in addition to being as skillful as an expensive call girl and always attuned to his sexual whims and moods, was also a competent anesthesiologist.
“You’re so fearless,” she crooned. “Nerves of ice. It makes me wet. Even in the operating room.”
“You shouldn’t think about sex while we’re working,” he snapped.
Her eyes widened. So did her legs, an automatic reflex that showed off her glistening vulva. “Scold me. I love it when you’re stern.”
“I know.” He turned away with insulting indifference, and opened her armoire, searching for one of the fresh shirts she kept for him.
The next line in the script was predictable. “I’m free tonight and tomorrow,” she said. “Can I see you?”
“No,” he said lightly. “Tonight I have to go to a musical with Helen and the girls. And tomorrow I have that meeting. As you know.”
Her face tightened. She sat up. “I don’t understand why it’s necessary to meet this Zhoglo in order to conduct business with him—”
“Do not say the name,” he reproved her sharply.
She rolled her eyes. “This is my bedroom. Don’t get paranoid.”
“I wouldn’t want certain information to slip in the wrong context.”
Diana arched her chest, pressing taut nipples against the silk of her nightie. “When am I ever anything but discreet?” Her voice was a silky coo, but he heard the acid undertone. “Have I ever complained that you can never take me out to dinner? That you never touch me in public? Not even when we’re in Tokyo or Hong Kong or Johannesburg. It’s always room service. But do I complain?”
This part was so tedious. “No, Diana. You’ve been very good.”
“It’s insane, Richie. This idea to keep the stock supply here, instead of harvesting the parts overseas, or offshore.”
Parts. Stock supply. Diana needed to distance herself emotionally from the realities of the plan they were embarking upon. He didn’t.
“Those hours of travel time make all the difference,” he said patiently. “And I prefer to conduct the harvest myself. For the amount we charge, I have to control as many variables as possible. I have no choice, Diana.”
She looked down, twiddling with the silk nightie, her face sullen. He wondered briefly if she would be able to handle what lay ahead.
But he could handle Diana. The time honored technique known as “diamond and emerald earrings” always worked.
“Bullshit,” she said petulantly. “You have choices. Every day, when you choose to go home to that frigid bitch.”
They were out of the danger zone. He ran his hands over his own fit, lean body, checking for traces of the fluids of coitus. Not that Helen ever got close enough to him to smell another woman on his person, but even so. He was always meticulous about hygiene. Came from being a surgeon, no doubt. He ignored Diana’s complaining and went into the adjoining bathroom.
Strange, he thought, as he set the shower running, how an isolated incident could change a man’s life. One turn to the right or left affected one’s destiny forever. What was happening now had started at a medical convention in Paris, when he was an emerging thoracic surgeon with several brilliant successes to his name. He went out to sample Parisian nightlife, relieved to be away from Helen’s moods and headaches and the constant noise and chaos of his young daughters.
His adventures on that dreamy night had been lubricated by large quantities of alcohol and cocaine, and extravagant sums of money. He’d ended up in a luxurious apartment, entertained until dawn by two beautiful and uninhibited Parisiennes. He’d awakened in the rumpled bed, sticky with sex. Head throbbing.
A tidy, graying man with a pinstriped suit and an English accent was sitting by the bed, waiting for Richard’s eyes to open. He introduced himself as Nigel Dobbs.
It had taken a long, disoriented moment for the reason for the unusual stickiness to sink in.
Blood against the white sheets. He turned, looked. Gaped.
The girls’ wrists had been tied to the posts of the wooden bed. Their throats had been cut. They sprawled, naked, eyes wide and staring. Blood, everywhere. The room was doused with it.
It had felt like a dream. He blinked gummy eyelids, staring from Dobbs back to the girls, as a business proposal was made to him.
He had been very startled, but he had remained cool. His brain had always been that way, functioning superbly in situations that others would consider