Enchanted Heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enchanted Heart

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Chesapeake Chicks Day T. Smith and Carolyn Greene, and Lee “It's Just a Little Snow” Tobin McClain had to wonder when I'd ever finish talking about Lance. Thanks, guys. Don Maass (master of “How can it matter even more?”) and Michelle Brummer, your wrangling skills are tops. Don, Lance became a real man as a result of your advice in New Orleans. To Pearl “Mom” Wilson, Pat Doucet, Cynthia White, and Brenda Woodbury: It's always great talking to you and seeing you; thanks for reading and spreading the word. A special thanks to Tracy Dunham who read the entire long first draft of this book, provided wonderful insight, and helped me create discussion questions; and to Jessica at Kensington who encourages, inspires and is one terrific saleswoman.

—Ecclesiastes 2:1

1

T
he red lace panties intrigued him—a lot.

Intellectually Lance Heart Smith could appreciate that the color represented passion, high drama, power and sometimes anger or a challenge. But on another level, a basic one, the scrap of red lingerie dangling in front of him stood for intrigue. In this case, the woman holding those panties piqued his curiosity like nothing else had in quite some time.

Once upon a time they'd been undergrads together at Brown. But she'd somehow escaped his attention then. He'd been juggling several complicated relationships, including ones with an heiress, a senator's daughter and his psych professor. Now though, as sole proprietor of Guilty Pleasures, Vivienne la Fontaine had his complete attention, divided as it was between the panties and the lady herself. The savvy businesswoman appealed to him. By retail standards, her store was average size—Lance guessed no more than twelve hundred square feet. But every bit of the space was used very well, with inviting displays and cozy nooks designed for customers, probably couples, to privately consider their purchases.

A light scent—of vanilla?—danced on the air, not blatant like incense, but subtle, more like a tease of something easy and intimate, something easy and comforting. And everywhere the eye fell, a sensual feast awaited. The soft silks of slips and camisoles beckoned as did the frills of more adventurous unmentionables. Here there were sexy undergarments in muted pastels and soft pashminas designed to drape across a woman's bare shoulders, and there a tempting display of candles, feathers and scented oils. Everything in the shop invited the touch, from the lingerie for sale to the open showcases designed to make customers pause, linger and consider. The entire store was a feast of color and textures and sensuousness.

Right now, though, it wasn't Vivienne la Fontaine's agile mind, her quick wit, her lingerie store or her business acumen that held Lance spellbound. Right now, he just wished he could see that wisp of red fabric slowly trailing down those long luscious legs of hers.

And from the look in her eyes, her thoughts ran parallel to his. He sensed the passion in her, and between them a soul-deep connection of like-minded people. She was earth centered, he could tell from the timeless knowledge and the touch of humor in her dark brown eyes. Those smoky depths promised just the sort of guilty pleasure that Lance loved most. He'd bet the Cartier on his wrist and the gold cuff links in his sleeves that she was high maintenance. Since he was, too, he knew they'd suit each other. Vivienne was the kind of woman who'd prefer stockings to panty hose. He sure did.

She, like he, played a teasing game that had been volleyed between men and women since Eden. They were well matched in this sport.

They understood each other.

And he liked that.

He reached for the red panties, but she shifted them just out of his reach. Lance should have looked ridiculous sprawled along the damask-covered chaise, its upholstery a succulent French vanilla. He instead looked comfortably at home, as if he made a habit of seducing tall, dark beauties in lingerie boutiques each and every day. He liked the decadent extravagance of the chaise, a piece that more aptly belonged in a lady's boudoir.

“Or, do you prefer the white ones?” she asked, trailing the silky material of another pair of panties up the sleeve of his suit jacket. She leaned into him, making sure he saw all there was to see of the . . . merchandise. It was all very expensive, and Lance's tastes ran toward quality, though he was not at all averse to quantity.

Since she obviously wanted his attention there, Lance didn't disappoint. His mouth, however, went dry over the display so willingly offered. But he didn't touch. Not yet. He loved this part. The thrust and parry. The slow shifting and maneuvering. The game a familiar one, he waited to see what she would do next. He'd been down this path many, many times, so by rights he should have been bored. As a matter of fact, he already had a date for the early evening with a woman he'd toyed with in a similar manner. She, too, was lovely. A beauty pageant winner. They were to meet for dinner at a new restaurant in Norfolk then have dessert and each other in a more intimate setting.

But something about Vivienne la Fontaine arrested his attention.

And so he decided to play this out, to see where it led.

Idly rich, Lance's great purpose in life was the pursuit of pleasure, carnal and otherwise. The hint of a smile danced at his mouth. His eyes, hooded under half-closed lids, flashed at the thrill of the chase. He knew the prize would soon be his, and he'd liberally indulge with this most worthy partner.

His gaze took in all of her. It wasn't often that he met a woman physically his equal. At six foot four, Lance frequently towered over most men and all of the women he met. But even if Vivienne kicked off the strappy sandals, or, better yet, if he untied the satin ribbons that wrapped around her ankles, she'd still be able to look him in the eye without straining up to meet his gaze. At the moment though, his mind wasn't on her eyes. Rather, his complete attention lay riveted on those full breasts displayed so temptingly before him.

A sable-colored bustier lifted and defined her, but Mother Nature had been generous. Very generous.

Thank you, Mom.

“Have you decided what you want?”

Her voice trailed over him like a summer rain, soft and easy.

“You know I have,” he said, as his finger traced the edge of the panties she held. Her skin would be soft to the touch, much softer than the fabric.

Lance wondered if she'd remembered to lock the front door. It wouldn't do to have a customer wander in. Then again, he thought, a smile blossoming on his face, part of the thrill lay in the possibility of getting caught. How would they explain that? His body quickened for her. But Lance was a man of infinite patience—when the occasion merited that particular skill.

She licked her lips, apparently waiting for him to voice his panty preference, the red or the white. Snagging her around the waist he pulled her toward him. But before he could do anything else, she stepped out of his reach, her soft laughter a tease. The sultry purr rippled over every nerve ending in Lance's body. He was hard and ready. But he knew there was no need to rush. They were both consenting adults, and he planned to enjoy every moment with her.

Shifting, Lance draped an arm across the headrest of the chaise and watched her retreat. She didn't merely walk. Mortals walked. This Amazon goddess sashayed, her full hips beckoning, tempting, wooing. She moved to a small pedestal-type counter where she placed the two pairs of panties and picked up a black mosaic fountain pen.

He rose, following her, his gaze starting at the sexy shoes and slowly working its way up past long, long legs, shapely thighs and full hips covered in a short cream-colored skirt. From there, the view extended to a slim waist and then on to those breasts. He planned to spend a lot of time worshipping there.

“That's how I do it,” she said.

Reluctantly, Lance forced his attention away from her tantalizing assets and up to her mouth and then the rest of her face. “Do what?”

She smiled and he was lost.

He barely contained a feral growl as he watched her sift through a basket of lacy material. He didn't pause to ascertain what garments she fondled because he imagined her hands roaming over him that way, lingering here, caressing there. He took a deep, steadying breath, marveling over the fact that she'd so quickly and effortlessly ensnared him. He took another deep breath, willing himself to maintain a slow, easy pace in this dance of seduction.

A moment later, a bra dangled in front of his face, suspended from one of her fingers, the material the color of sweet and tempting peaches on a hot summer day. Against her dark skin, the brassiere radiated sexuality.

“Maybe you'd like to take a look at something like this,” she said.

Lance took a deep breath, filling his nostrils with the lushly primal scent of her.

“What's the name of your perfume?”

“Wanton,” she said.

“It is. Are you?”

She smiled. “What do you think?”

He reached for the delightful bit of lingerie, which he'd duly noted wouldn't be nearly enough to contain her own bountiful bosom.

She smoothed the silky material of the brassiere over his left hand. His right clenched into a fist, and this time his breath exhaled on a shudder as anticipation rippled through him. When she leaned forward, Lance knew it was over.

“This is why Guilty Pleasures has been a success,” she said near his ear. “How do you think we do our market surveys ?”

Lance didn't have a clue and didn't give a damn. He was too full of the exotic scent of her, too tangled in her sensual web. The lessons he'd learned from his grandmother and mother about being a gentleman with a lady went by the wayside, lustily and heartily overtaken by the need ripping through him.

But something didn't compute. “What did you say?”

“When?”

“Just a moment ago.” His brow furrowed as he struggled to put the pieces together, struggled as though awakening from a passion-induced delirium. “Market surveys?”

She smiled and tapped his chest with her fountain pen.

“Welcome to Guilty Pleasures, Lance. You wanted to know how a little lingerie shop makes money. I just showed you.”

Lance blinked, tried to get his bearings.

Had he just been played?

He was still on fire for her, but Vivienne was now standing behind the counter, ticking off something on a form. Her firm grip on the fountain pen was competent, businesslike, not at all distracted by desire.

He looked back at the chaise, the place where just a moment ago he'd planned to strip off the few clothes she wore and make hot, passionate love to her.

“Did I miss something?”

She glanced up. “I don't think so. You said you wanted to stop by to see how the shop is run. Had I known you were coming today I would have had my employees here and an information packet together for you. I took from our conversation at the reunion in Providence that you're interested in an investment opportunity.”

“Investment opportunity.” Is that what he'd told her? And she'd believed him?

She put her pen down. “You've changed your mind?”

He shook his head, responding both to her and to the reproach that sprouted from within. Had he become so hedonistic that he'd lost sight of everything except the things that brought him physical pleasure?

Uh, yeah.

The answer prompted a certain level of disgust at his own shallowness. But there was a beautiful woman standing in front of him, a beautiful woman he wanted.

“No. Not at all,” he said. “I got the impression . . .” He held his hand out, inviting her to step away from the counter. She placed her hand in his and walked around the pedestal until they stood mere inches apart.

“What just happened between us? That had nothing to do with investing.”

“I don't mix business with pleasure, Lance.”

“Business
is
pleasure,” he said. And then his mouth covered hers.

 

 

The memory of that kiss and how very easily he'd waltzed into her web of sensuality stayed with Lance through the afternoon. He'd run into Viv at their five-year class reunion. There, in Providence, Rhode Island, they'd struck up a conversation, even though their paths apparently had never crossed while at Brown, a fact that puzzled Lance since he'd majored in pretty girls and minored in good times. When they discovered that they now lived within thirty minutes of each other, they exchanged numbers and e-addresses in order to hook up back at home in Virginia.

He'd claimed to be interested in the business she ran, but he was more fascinated with the woman she'd become. He'd promised to stop by her shop in the Ghent section of Norfolk. And in doing so, his first impression of her had been more than confirmed. Viv appealed to him physically, big time. But also intellectually.

While his playmates and girlfriends weren't known for being Rhodes scholars, Lance could think of nothing sexier than a beautiful woman with brains and business savvy. And Vivienne had been blessed with plenty of both. Thoughts of her eclipsed those of his date for the evening, a woman he was supposed to meet at a new place called Cloud 9, a restaurant she'd chosen. The connection between Cloud 9 and airhead didn't escape him.

So now, when he should have been listening to his uncle's plans, Lance's attention kept wandering back to Guilty Pleasures and the sexy woman with whom he'd spent a few brief moments.

The scent of her haunted him. The ease with which she tantalized him bemused him. But most of all, her obvious rebuff when he'd been so incredibly turned on, dazed him. She'd kissed him all right. But then, while his foundation had been toppled, she'd stepped away as if his kiss didn't faze her one bit. She'd looked and acted calm, collected, in control and not at all affected by the power and energy that thrummed all around them.

“No, Lance,” she'd simply said.

And he'd backed off. Backed off despite the blood pounding in his veins and the desire pumping through his body.

No woman had ever turned him down. Not. Ever. Not even once.

Who did she think she was?

“Lance?”

He sat up on the bar stool and focused on the here and now. “Yeah, Cole.”

“Have you heard a word of what I just said?”

Lance hadn't. But it didn't take a lot of guesswork to figure out what Cole had been talking about. He'd become something of a broken record. Cole wore the harried and annoyed expression that had become all too familiar to Lance, first when they'd worked together at the headquarters of Heart Federated Department Stores, and more recently in the last six months.