Messalina: Devourer of Men (6 page)

My black velvet slip dress is designed to make grown men feel underage. I bought it months ago on a whim, but tonight will be its premiere. The dress hugs all my curves, while exposing just enough cleavage and leg. As far as panties are concerned—why bother?

Jared shows up right at seven o’clock. Taking several deep breaths, I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress and open the door.

He greets me with a dazzling smile and dimples that make him sinfully adorable. He wears black slacks and a navy-blue linen shirt. The lustrous sheen of his hair gleams like dark copper. This time, I can’t keep myself from getting trapped by his gaze, which seems to turn a deeper shade of violet before my eyes.

He must know the power of his stare, because he holds a bouquet of deep purple irises on long green stems. I reach out and gently pull him inside by the arm.

“You look delicious, Evadne,” he says as he crosses the threshold. I catch the scent of my favorite cologne which is, ironically enough, Obsession for Men. I smile.

“Please, call me Eva.”

“Sorry. Am I mispronouncing it?”

“No, you’re saying it perfectly. Everyone calls me Eva.”

He inhales deeply and it expands his chest beneath the crisp linen of his shirt.

“Smells good.” He leans forward to kiss me and wastes no time inserting his tongue for a quick taste. I moan in response. As he pulls away, he gently bites my lower lip and gives me a peck on the tip of my nose. “I’ve been thinking about you, girl.”

I look down so he can’t see my satisfied smirk. It’s a struggle to keep myself from grabbing him and forcing him to the ground. We are going to have dinner first. We
are
, damn it! I step back and accept the bouquet.  “These are lovely.”

“You complement each other.”

“Flirt.” I spin on my heel to find something to put the flowers in. Using a vase from my china cabinet, I arrange the flowers and place them at the center of the coffee table in the den.

Jared follows me and makes a sound of approval. My home is an eclectic mix of family hand-me-downs and salvage pieces reupholstered with quality, jewel-toned fabrics. The beige color of the walls makes my home look warm and as plush as a sultan’s den.

I motion for him to sit on an overstuffed couch that faces the balcony and the view. He’s immediately drawn to my collection of art glass housed in a display cabinet. I see him study one of my prize pieces: a Blenko flower vase that was given to me by my great-aunt. In my best hostess voice, I ask, “You said you’ve been working hard. Tell me about it.”
 

Reaching up, he smoothes his left eyebrow with his forefinger allowing me to catch a glimpse of a Rolex watch before he replies. “I freelance. Set my own hours, my own rates.”

“You’re that good, huh?”

“Yes.”

No false modesty here, nor should there be from what I gleaned off the Internet. I go to pour us each a glass of wine and, when I bring it to him, I sit a discrete distance away on the couch. He frowns.

“Why so far away?”

I shrug. He reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Am I going to have to beg to get close to you?”

“Maybe.”

“All right, I’ll make a deal with you.” He moves closer and with a conspiratorial gleam in his eyes, he says, “Whoever begs first has to submit to the other’s wishes.”

My lips curve into a wicked grin. “You’re on, hot stuff.”

“Oh, so you think I’m hot?”

My face flames with embarrassment. He laughs and his thumb caresses my knuckles, transferring heat to the hand he holds. I retract my hand from his before the sweat becomes noticeable. By his calm expression, he knows that if he plays his cards right, more than his gaze will be penetrating me before the night is through.

“Tell me about yourself, Jared.”

He smiles. I think he knows I’m fencing.

“Let’s see.” He takes a sip of wine and looks out onto the balcony. “I’m forty-one, single, no kids. I’ve been told I have a quick temper, but really I just can’t stand sloppy work and have no time for fools. I like animals and classic cars, but loathe squash and English peas.”

Seeing my blank expression, he laughs. “I’m sorry, Eva, but you don’t impress me as one who likes boring chit-chat.” He reaches out to stroke my hand. “You seem the
60 Minutes
type to me.”

“I don’t know.” I try to suppress a smile but fail. “
Washington Week in Review
, maybe.”

He sets his wineglass on the table before turning to me, hands on his lap like an obedient schoolboy. “OK, Ms. Evadne . . .”

“Cavell.”

“OK, Ms. Evadne Cavell of the
New York Times
, grill away.”

“I’m not going to grill you. I’m sure you’ve had enough interviews to last you for a while.”

He raises an eyebrow. “How would you know? You doing research on me or something?”

“I’m just curious, that’s all.” I pick at a cushion lying between us. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve met before.”

“That’s because we haven’t met before.”

“You’re a real smart-ass, aren’t you?”

“I call it having a sense of humor.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to get to know you because that six-word bio just doesn’t cut it.”

He picks up his drink and grins at me over the brim of his glass as he slowly finishes the contents. “You found my bio, eh? You
have
been doing research.”

“There are no straight answers with you, are there?” I laugh and he puts up his hands in a gesture of defeat.

“OK, straight answers. What I said earlier is true and I’ve loved drawing since I was four. I got my degree in studio art from the University of Colorado in Boulder when I moved here but I was actually getting by doing design work but decided to go for it.”

“So the art degree was just because you wanted it?”

“It was a challenge.” He smiles.

“See, I figured you’re not from around these parts. It took me a while to place your Texas twang.”

He says nothing, but he’s grinning and his eyes sparkle. Beads of sweat form at the back of my neck. My seduction skills are so rusty it’s pathetic.

“A-any siblings?” I could kill myself for stuttering, but smile to play it off.

“Several, actually. I have an older brother in town. He’s the one who got me up here when I was nineteen. I put myself through college by working in a restaurant.”

“Oh, really? Which one?”

“DeGaulle’s.”

I blink. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

DeGaulle’s is one of Denver’s best restaurants serving classic and nouveau French cuisine, and my good friend, Tony Lobos, has a large stake in it. It’s won international praise and recognition. A person needs to reserve a month in advance just to get on the waiting list. If it weren’t for Tony, I would never see the inside of the place.

“Well, on that note,” I say and stand up, “time to eat.” 

“Good.” He rises to his feet and looks me in the eye. “I’m hungry.”

Sitting at my small, round dining room table, the candle between us isn’t the only thing burning. My body sizzles being this close to him. There’s a force between us, like two magnets facing each other; it’s strong but keeps us apart.

I suppose he’s being a Southern gentleman, because apart from our kiss at the door and holding hands on the couch, he hasn’t made any sudden moves or said anything crude. He doesn’t have to. I feel his eyes on me, caressing and touching me all over. Resuming our conversation, I ask, “Out of your siblings, where do you fit in?”

“I’ve often asked myself the same question.” He laughs. “Chronologically, I fall in the middle.” He looks at me. “What about you? Any brothers and sisters?”

I nod. “One of each. They’re older.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You seem a bit repressed, that’s all.” He shrugs.

I put down my fork. “Repressed is an interesting choice of word. How do you come by it?”

He leans back in his seat. The taper candles between us almost obscures my view of his face, but the candlelight enhances his features, softening their sharp edges. He places a forefinger to his lips, and scrutinizes me at his leisure.

“I say ‘repressed’ because there’s something shy and innocent about you.”

“Innocent?” I laugh then tell him of my
Rocky Horror
days and the fallout from it.

“Well, for someone with visible physical appeal, you don’t seem too comfortable with yourself.” He straightens up in his seat and resumes eating. “If you were, you wouldn’t be such a cocktease.”

He sees my stunned expression and nods the way when someone gets busted and caught on camera.

“That’s why you go someplace where you can hide in the dark. You forget, Eva, I’ve seen you operate. I’ve seen the way you lure a man and leave him behind—almost like you left me.” He winks. “I couldn’t be sure until I saw you do it a few times but, yep, you’re a cocktease. Sitting in the theater with your skirt all tight and your sweater barely containing your . . . abundance.”

Now, my skin feels clammy. I’ve been outed. Jared has exposed me in more ways than one, but I can’t let him think he’s rattled me.

“Is that why you came over to me in the lobby?”

“Nah, girl, I just saw through you.” He eats a few more bites before leaning back in his seat, crossing his legs, and casually turning the wineglass by its stem. “Now, I could sit here and feed you bullshit by saying I think you’re different, blah, blah, blah. But honey, we’re all different. Hell, even twins are different.”

I frown, my appetite now gone.

“Nevertheless,” he says, slowly drawing out each syllable.

I look at him expectantly, wondering what smart comeback he has.

“I could tell at the theater that the more we talked, your body was just a bonus. But then again, I knew it would be,” he says and sips his wine, “because, Eva, you
are
different.”

I shake my head and his smug grin makes me smile despite myself. He’s a smooth-talking bastard, but a likeable one. OK, maybe I am a cocktease and my choice in men could definitely use a quality check. But now I’ve had both Ana and Jared tell me that my good-girl veneer is thinner than I thought. What am I trying to prove, anyway? That I’m
repressed
, as Jared so eloquently said?

“Touché,” I say simply and resume eating. This sparks a chuckle out of him and I join in.

The rest of dinner goes smoothly despite his discovering an empty bistro carton on the kitchen counter when he helps me clear the dishes.

“Hey, time was tight.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He puts an arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head. His lips brush my temple making me shiver as I feel the contrast of his soft lips, the firmness of his jaw, and the way his cologne mixes with the warmth of his body. All of this in combination with the wine makes me grip the countertop for balance.

“Go take a seat,” I say with a smile and he leaves while I load the dishwasher. Then I open the bottle of Italian Asti set aside for desert and pour two tall, fluted glasses of the sparkling wine.

“I should apologize, Jared.” I explain as I join him in the den. “If I really wanted to be rid of you the day we met, I would’ve been blunt.” Like I was with Jerk-Off Man, I wanted to add.

“Glad to hear it.” He takes the bottle from me and places it on the coffee table.

I dim the lights and turn up the saxophone jazz. Then we step onto the balcony to see the city lights. The sky glows orange and pink behind silhouetted mountains and the night comes in like a band of dark blue melting from above with only a few bright pinpoints for stars. Leaning against the railing, I want Jared’s hands on me, his long fingers satisfying my fetish for them as they find their way into my center once again.

Instead, I sense his gaze on me, sliding down my exposed spine and lingering on my bottom before continuing down my thighs to the back of my knees. I’m riveted to the spot, pretending to look at the skyline. He finally comes close behind me.

“Cappuccino,” he says as his cool fingers glide up the back of my neck and into my hair.

“Hmm?”

“The color of your skin. Definitely, cappuccino.” His breath is warm against my ear. “I wonder if it tastes as good.”

His kiss smolders on my collarbone and I wouldn’t be surprised if a burn develops there. He traps me by wrapping his arms completely around my middle and I get to experience just how hard his body is for the first time.                        

“You’re trembling,” he whispers, pulling away. “Why?”

I stay focused on the view. “It’s hard to let my guard down.”

“Do you have to guard yourself?”

I shrug. “Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”

He laughs and I wonder if the man has a sensitive bone in his body. I turn to face him and encounter those eyes. For a moment, it’s as if we stare into each other’s core. He doesn’t move and the warmth of his skin and the sweetness of the wine on his breath is turning me on.

“Let me guess.” He smirks. “You have to keep in control to save from getting hurt?”