Guilty Pleasures (9 page)

“Well, I think you need to take a good look at your real motivation in taking on this whole thing, Doc. Shrink yourself!”

“I need the money, Caro. I’m sticking it out—for at least a few months.” A stubborn edge entered Lance’s voice.

“Don’t cry to me when the shit hits the proverbial fan, baby boy.” Her voice softened. “I just worry about you. You’re a lonely man and you don’t even know it.”

“Caro, I’m fine, just fine. Take care, please, Granny.”

“I will, darling, see you soon. I love you!”

Lance cut off the call with a frown.
Well, that didn’t go according to plan, either. Deserting Lance
was the name of
this
movie. First George absconding into the land of love, and now Caroline, of all people, ripping into him about the morality of the assignment. He stifled an uneasy twinge that told him she was right and he’d made a mistake.
 

Well, it was only for a little while longer. Caro’s question echoed in his mind:
“When was the last time you fell in love?”

“With you, Caro,” he said sadly. “With you.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even made love to someone. Two or three years at least, and a joyless mechanical affair that had been. He had no time and no patience for getting-to-know-you games or speed dating. No taste for one-night stands or virtual dates. And he got more than enough satisfaction out of his work. Why risk his peace of mind? If release was needed, handmade sin would do him right.

That hollow, sour feelings he got late on Sunday afternoons when the work ran out and nobody called, or when he walked into the empty apartment at the end of a particularly long hard day, was something he’d learned to live with long ago.

Now was the time to think of the future and do what he did so well: make a plan, a winning plan. He had six weeks before George’s wedding reception to accomplish the Deafly
Awakening
.
 

Tomorrow he’d get Wilfred to step up the pace as defeat was
not
an option. Tomorrow he’d take on Millicent Deafly, be a winner, and find a way out of his bind. He took a deep breath and told himself that tomorrow was a brand new day. Tonight he’d cry over Caroline for the last time.
 

A relaxed Millie stepped out of her bubble bath, and wrapped herself in her turquoise silk robe. She brushed out her hair and padded downstairs with Horse at her heels. She popped in a jazz CD and opened her diary to the first sensual notes of Charles Mingus’s “Moanin’.”

From the Diary of Millicent Deafly:

Today was a lovely day; I had a good rest. At one in the afternoon, the decorator picked up the Louis XV monstrosity bed and dropped off the Food Festival props. They looked wonderful. It’s going to be such fun.

There were brilliant nine feet high posters of Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth, Sophia Loren, Brigitte Bardot, and Anita Ekberg—all looking juicy and sexy, with well calibrated cleavages and plenty of flesh on their bones. They were all absolutely scrumptious and didn’t look like they missed a single meal if they could help it.
 

In kitchen news: I’m rather looking forward to taking Will shopping, putting him through his paces. He’s got a cute arse inside those ridiculous pants. Well, I’m not blind, am I? And there is absolutely no harm in looking.

I’ll wear that new silk satin peach camisole with the ivory lace and matching panties. I must say it looks scrumptious on me, and I love the way the slippery fabric feels on my skin. I must get a new chest of drawers for my lingerie collection. This one is getting quite full.

Oh, can you believe Serge was at me again about getting a life, since he says I’m a nun? Ha! Do nuns wear a burgundy and black lace bustier under their habits, I ask you? He even accuses me of not having any friends. I do, too, have lots of friends! My phone rings constantly, my e-mail in-box is always full, and I have 1,634 friends on Facebook.
 

Okay, so they are all either suppliers or clients, but with the work we do, and the hours we keep, what can he expect? I have him, don’t I? Let’s see . . . one short black friend, and one giant piebald dog. Hmm . . . I guess I could do worse.

Chapter 7

A good first kiss sets the pace for the rest of the relationship. The sweetest kiss, the most tender, hesitant touch of lips to lips is intensely erotic. Most successful seductions start with a
great kiss
. Swallow your saliva before an open-mouth kiss—too much is repulsive. Don’t stick in your entire tongue at first go. Allow her to set the pace for the kiss.

—Sensual Secrets of a Sexual Surrogate

Lance got to Guilty Pleasures at three fifty-five in the morning. Millie was there, already waiting, hands in her pockets and with her shoulders hunched against the morning chill.
 

“Morning, Will,” she said cheerfully. “Shall I drive, or would you rather . . .”

“Good morning,” Lance replied. “I’ll drive, Millie. You just tell me where.”

“Well, we’ll do the usual stops at the butcher, baker, and candlestick maker,” she said with a light laugh. “And the first stop—the flower market. I need to pick up the floral arrangements for tonight and place some special orders for rare flowers for a wedding.”

“Wedding? I thought you did theme dinners and small parties.”

“Well yes, but this is special. It is a
themed
Victorian or
Great Expectations
wedding, if you like, and I certainly do like that. Sounds great for a marriage celebration!
Great Expectations
, don’t you think?”

Lance flashed a CD jewel case. “Do you mind if I put on some music?”

Millie smiled. “Not at all. Go ahead.”
 

He slid the disk into the player in one smooth move, turned on the ignition, and pulled out into the empty street. As the first notes filled the car, he suavely glanced over. “You like Motown?”

“Oh yes; very much.”

Marvin Gaye’s voice joined in and Lance murmured suavely, “I love
Sexual Healing
first thing in the morning, don’t you?”

Millie stifled a smile. “Really? I much prefer getting
Laid
 . . .”

Lance gaped. “Sorry?”

She giggled. “You know the song “Laid” by James, to be specific. Britpop band, late eighties?” She started singing the daring lyrics in a clear, tuneful voice.

Lance found himself laughing. He liked this woman. Millie was clearly a morning person. She literally bubbled over with energy and bonhomie.
 

“Did you know that composing a bouquet used to be an art? There was an entire language of flowers. A Victorian would send his beloved a composition of blooms, exactly like a
billet-doux.
You could tell someone you adored them, that your heart was true, or you were cheating on them with their great-aunt Agatha. You could literally say it all with flowers.”
 

“You know a lot about this, Millie!”

“Gosh, I know a lot about all sorts of things. Modesty aside, I collect useless information. If there is anything you’d never wanted to know, would rather not know, or would
pay
not to know, I can probably write a book about it.”
 

Lance found himself laughing unaffectedly. He couldn’t remember the last time every word, every move he made in a woman’s presence was not carefully thought out to achieve a specific aim. Millie Deafly stripped him bare.

“ ‘
Though I have closed myself as fingers’
 . . .” he murmured to himself.

“E.E. Cummings’s
Somewhere i have never travelled
! Why, Will, I’d never take you for a poetry enthusiast!”

“I’ve been knocking around for a few years, and I’ve taken on all sorts of odd jobs. You pick up all sorts of stuff.”

“Like?”

He laughed. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. And poetry comes in handy every once in a while.”

Millie’s cheeks dimpled. “Of course! You can use it to impress your girl.”

Lance glanced at her again. There was no guile in her smile, just a friendly, open curiosity. “I don’t have a girl. I’m still waiting for the real thing.”

“At your age? You believe in that? Father Christmas, too?”

“Yeah, I really do. Please, don’t make me feel ashamed for being a romantic . . .” He suddenly remembered her instant recognition of the poem. “You faker!
You
are a romantic,” Lance smiled. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Goodness,” Millie said. “Do I seem so hardened?”

“No, not at all, only distant. You know, as if—” Lance stopped, uncertain how she’d take his comment.

“Go on, Will. I won’t be offended.”

“Well, as if love was a foreign country and you didn’t have a passport.”

“Well, now
I am
surprised. You are a bit of a poet yourself.” She paused. “I did go there, you know—to that foreign land. I stamped my passport a few times, but I didn’t like the way it made me feel.”

“How did it make you feel?”

“Alone.”

They fell silent as they arrived at the flower market. Lance chose to concentrate on his parking, neatly avoiding the continuation of a sudden intimacy neither seemed equipped to handle.

Millie quickly negotiated the labyrinthine covered market, moving agilely through the crowd of flower sellers, florists, and dealers. She arrived in front of a stall draped with a green awning, and greeted the owner with a bright smile. “Hey, Tim, how’s life?”

“Millie!” Tim came out with his arms extended and swept her up into a bear hug. “How long has it been? How’s Serge?”

“Three months, I think, since that Hawaiian event I hosted. Serge is fine, as always.” Millie kissed him affectionately on both cheeks and stepped nimbly out of his embrace, but Lance noticed that Tim kept his hand possessively on her elbow. “This is Will Pecklise, our new helper.”

Tim nodded coolly.

“I need to place an order, darling. It’s for the seventeenth of next month, but I wanted to do it right away because it’s for these really old-fashioned flower arrangements, and you might have some trouble coming up with the makings on such short notice.”

“You always want weird, but wonderful things, Millie.” Tim smiled down at her. He was an athletic-looking man in his late thirties with a shock of brownish blond hair and the craggy features of a rugby player.
 

Lance noted with distaste that his rolled up sleeves displayed extremely hairy, though muscular forearms. A similar tuft of sandy hair peeked out of his shirt opening.
Yuck
.
 

“What will it be this time?”

“Victoriana! Violets, pansies, daffodils, forget-me-nots, tea roses . . . whatever you might find appropriate for arrangements in shallow silver bowls. Maybe baby’s breath to soften it?”

“It won’t be cheap, Millie, that I can tell you. Some of it will have to be hothouse and planted by request. Thank God you’re giving me advance warning. How many arrangements?”

“It will be one long table with forty seats. So, seven for the table, and I’ll bring in some large baskets as well. We can have cascades of the blossoms in those for the sideboard, etcetera. Think you can manage, Tim?”

“Of course, Millie, anything, but
anything
for you! I’ll get on it today. Send me an e-mail confirming the order so I can send you a quote.” Tim cast the silent Lance a jaundiced look and stepped closer to her. “When will you have time for our dinner? You promised . . .”