Made For Sex (35 page)

After another fifteen minutes the two women had agreed that nothing in Fran's limited jewelry wardrobe would do. “You've got to graduate from these studs,” Carla said, pulling off her earrings. “Put these on.”

The earrings Carla handed Fran were large, thick gold hoops, that looked to Fran more like something a gypsy would wear than a girl from Omaha. She put them on and stared at herself in the mirror, amazed at how light they were.

“They look gorgeous on you,” Carla said, running her hands through Fran's hair, fluffing it away from her face. “Why don't you borrow them for luck?”

Fran looked. She was someone else. Her hair was streaky-blond and full around her face and the earrings highlighted her slender neck. “I don't know whether I could get used to something this big. They're the size of coasters.”

“And what's wrong with that?”

“They're so ostentatious. They're great on you, of course, but on someone my size they're so obvious.”

“And?”

“I'm not used to looking so, I don't know, overt.”

“So what's your point? What's wrong with being proud of the way you look? I think you look great.”

Fran had to admit that if she had seen an actress in a movie who looked like she did she would have admired her style. And what was wrong with it? “Yeah,” she sighed.

“Wear them for the day and let's see what Eileen says. One more thing before we call her. What about underwear for tonight?”

“Underwear?”

“Sure. You want something lacy and seductive.”

“O'Malley will probably never see it,” Fran said.

“And it's not for him. It's for you. Sexy lingerie is meant to make a woman feel soft and warm and sexy. And you wanted something to give you a little cleavage. Oh, and no panty hose.”

“Why not?”

“Nothing slows down good sex like panty hose. I think they were invented by some secret chastity activists. Victoria's Secret, here we come.”

They called Eileen and arranged to meet her at her office at noon. The two women walked through the brisk morning, chattering like the oldest and dearest friends they were rapidly becoming. The Harcourt Agency occupied a small, unassuming three-story townhouse in the east Fifties. Carla rang the bell and quickly Eileen opened the door.

“Holy mackerel,” she said, staring at Fran. “Nicki, you look fabulous.” She quick-kissed each woman. “I've told everyone that the famous Nicki St. Michelle was arriving for a brief visit this morning and they are all anxious to meet you. Ready?” Eileen grinned and pulled the two women inside.

“Do they know who I really am?” Fran asked softly.

“Most do, of course, but this can be your first test.”

All right, Fran thought. I'm Nicki. She looked at Eileen, who was wearing a deep blue suit with a soft blue and white striped blouse. “It's so good to see you again,” Nicki said, lowering the pitch of her voice. “You look smashing.”

Eileen winked. “Piece of cake.”

Nicki met everyone with a handshake and a smile. The staff in the office consisted of several twentysomething women who did everything from magazine rights to publicity and a crusty accountant who, when interrupted from his work on several royalty statements, actually flirted with her. “You're a hit,” Eileen said, leading the two women toward the door. “Bill's a tough sell and he's quite taken with you.”

“But he knows I'm not Nicki, doesn't he?”

“Of course. He's the one who sends you your checks twice a year. And speaking of that, how's the new book. Any progress?”

“Some,” Fran said, bluffing. “This whole experience will really add to the ideas I already have.”

“You should really strike while the iron's hot. If you can put together something while you're here, I can get Sandy to give it a quick read.”

Carla said, “How about my life story? You can call it Housewife to Hooker in Thirty Days.”

Fran stared at Carla. “That's not a bad idea at all.” Carla would make a wonderful character for a book, she thought. And what an opportunity for sexy scenes. “I do have a few ideas that might work out.”

Eileen grabbed her coat. “Let's eat, I'm starving.”

The three women had lunch at a little Italian restaurant near Eileen's office. At Carla's insistence, Fran told Eileen all about both Clark and O'Malley. “Way to go,” Eileen said, toasting Fran with a glass of club soda.

Raising her glass, Fran said, “Yeah. Way to go.”

When Eileen returned to work, Carla and Fran headed for a Victoria's Secret on Second Avenue. The items in the window display walked a thin line between overtly sexy and practical. Inside, Carla made a beeline for the bras. “What size?” When Fran told her, she grabbed several off the rack. “Try these on,” she snapped. When Fran hesitated, she all but dragged her to a fitting room. “Do it.”

Fran pulled off her top and tried on something called a Wonderbra in a shade of deep rose. “Wow,” she sighed. The bra pushed her breasts up and together so, for the first time in her life she had cleavage. Real cleavage. “Wow.”

Carla's voice came from right outside the door. “Can I come in?”

“I guess,” Fran said. “But I don't believe it.”

Carla burst into the tiny fitting room, several more colorful garments in her hands. “Shit, woman, you look really sexy.”

Fran's eyes were wide. “I do, don't I?”

“Okay, that's only a beginning. Here's more.”

For almost an hour Carla shuttled between the racks and the fitting room while Fran tried on bras, panties, garter belts and camisoles. When Carla arrived with a black satin teddy, Fran giggled. “Nah. I'm really not the slinky black type.”

“You never know till you try. You don't have to buy it, but put it on. I want to see how it looks.”

Now totally unself-conscious about undressing and dressing in front of Carla, Fran put on the black teddy. From behind her, Carla drove her fingers into Fran's hair and pushed it forward and up, until it was a wild golden mane. Then she took a black stocking and wrapped it around Fran's neck like a wide choker collar. “Oh baby,” Carla said. “I have a customer who would love this look.”

“You think so?”

“All you need is a small whip and he'd love you. Then he'd kneel at your feet and be your slave for life, if you'd let him.” Fran could see Carla's gaze drop to her bush, now outlined by the black satin. “God, he'd go crazy. And he's got the most talented mouth….”

Fran was amazed to feel her nipples harden and her pussy moisten. The idea actually appealed to her. She shook her head and quickly dressed in her street clothes. She bought three bras, several pairs of panties, a slip and a camisole, a garter belt with half a dozen pair of hose in assorted colors and, of course, the teddy.

The two women emerged from the store, and Carla kissed Fran on the cheek. “Nicki,” she said, “have a wonderful evening. Wear the earrings, and the underwear, and have fun. You're a consenting adult and I know you're ready for this.”

Fran took in and released a deep breath. “You know, I really think I am.”

“I'm running home,” Carla said. “BJ's got a hot date and, for the moment, Mom has to drive him and the lucky girl to the mall.”

“Have a nice evening,” Fran said.

“Not as nice as yours,” Carla said. Then she looked both ways then crossed the street in the middle of the block.

Fran looked at her watch. Four-thirty. She was meeting O'Malley at seven. Two and a half hours to get ready. Two and a half hours to get Nicki ready. At a brisk pace, Fran walked back to her apartment.

By six-thirty she was bathed, dressed and made up. She had on the outfit she and Carla had agreed on, with a wide belt she had picked up in a little store near Victoria's Secret. And she was wearing the wonderful rose bra that made the soft cranberry blouse look ever so much better. There was actually a shadow between her breasts. She reached down and slid her hands up the silky black hose which were held up by a black garter belt. She looked at herself again and, as she reached for her coat, she unbuttoned one extra button of her blouse, then tapped one gold hoop earring and watched it swing.

A few minutes stalling in front of the building, and a fifteen minute crosstown cab ride, and she arrived at Cafe des Artistes at exactly seven. She climbed out of the cab, straightened her back and pulled the door to the restaurant open.

She looked around at the sizable but strangely intimate restaurant. The walls were covered with paintings of nudes and nymphs. Vases and potted plants were cleverly placed to create smaller, more intimate areas in the several larger rooms.

“Madame?”

“Yes,” Fran said to the tuxedoed maitre d', “I'm meeting Mr. O'Malley.”

“Of course, madame. This way.” He weaved between closely packed chairs and tables. As she crossed the room she looked over the men sitting alone. Where was he? she wondered. As she approached a table in the quiet rear of the restaurant a man stood up and smiled at her. She panicked. That was all you could call it, panic. What the hell was she doing here? And what would that gorgeous man want with her? A friend of Carla's? He'd never had to pay for sex in his life.

She stared. He was tall, although everyone looked tall to her, even in her high heels. On closer inspection, he was probably only about five eight or nine, well built with broad shoulders that filled out his jacket without any padding. His hair was midnight brown, cut in a soft wave and obviously carefully blown dry. He had a kind of rugged good looks, not handsome but entirely masculine, with an angular chin with a deep Kirk Douglas cleft. His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen, surrounded by long, extremely dark curling eyelashes that women would kill for. His smile was broad and his hands—his hands were soft with long fingers. Fran flashed on a quick picture of his hands on her breasts. She felt the color rise in her cheeks.

Aware that she had been standing, rooted to the spot while the maitre d' held her chair, she mentally shook herself and took the final step toward the table. “You must be O'Malley,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.

“I'm delighted to finally meet you,” the man said, extending his hand.

Fran took it, held it momentarily, then sat down. She suddenly became aware that he had been staring at her almost as intently as she had been gazing at him. Suddenly she found the entire situation funny and laughed out loud.

O'Malley sat down and joined her laughter. When they finally quieted, he poured her a glass of deep ruby wine and said, “I'm so sorry for staring. You're not what I expected at all.”

“Neither are you,” Fran said. “You go first. What did you expect?”

“It's not too flattering, I'm afraid.”

“That's fine. Go for it.”

“When Carla explained that you were a writer from the Midwest who needed a bit of education on the ways of the ‘worldly wise' I expected someone plain, glasses, sensible shoes. You know.”

“I expected a cop-type. Big man with flaming red hair, gigantic mustache, a bit of a beer belly and big hands.”

“And what did you find?” he asked softly.

“You're gorgeous,” she blurted out, then almost choked. “I mean…”

“Leave it at that and I'll just sit here and bask. Actually I was thinking the same about you.”

Not used to being totally flustered, Fran picked up her wine, being careful to hold the glass by the stem. She recalled having seen a video on wine appreciation so she carefully tipped the glass and held it over the white tablecloth as the film had shown. She looked down through the wine, then put the glass to her nose and inhaled.

“It's very young,” O'Malley said. “It's light and very fruity. I thought you'd have very unsophisticated tastes so I picked something simple. I can see you're more well educated than I expected.”

Unable to continue the fraud, she laughed again. “I have no real clue what I'm doing. Carla taught me how to hold the glass and I watched a video on wine appreciation. I remember the images, but not anything about the reason for all this rigamaroll.”

“Ah. An honest woman. I think I'm in love.”

Fran felt herself blushing again. “I'll bet you say that to all the women.”

“Only the ones I like. Let me tell you about the wine. You look through it to appreciate its color. If it's quite purple, like this one is, it's very young. If it looks almost orange or brown, like the color of bricks, it's past its prime and might not taste good at all.”

“Oh,” Fran said, looking at the wine in her glass. It was purple, almost like watery grape juice.

“You smell it because it smells good and because most of what we think of as taste is really smell. Take a small sip.”

When she did, he said, “Now try to inhale through your nose while you sip.”

She inhaled and noticed that the wine tasted…she didn't know exactly how to describe it. It tasted more. “That's amazing. Despite the film, I never understood all the smelling and tasting.”