Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (9 page)

During his month of hotel hopping, he’d had plenty of time to consider the possibilities—and the ramifications—to taking whatever passed between them at the Christmas party to the next level. Hell, he didn’t know or understand exactly what happened, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t realize that something had, and he’d also be lying if he didn’t acknowledge that acting on that
something
might very well cost him his top salesperson . . . and his closest friend. Thank goodness, the salesperson part didn’t bother him nearly as much as the friend one, which proved he hadn’t totally become a hard ass businessman. But he was a businessman—a thinker and a planner—and he’d been blessed to have plenty of thinking and planning to do during the last month for the Panache acquisition. If he hadn’t, he’d have probably overthought and overplanned what to do about this situation with Clarise. As it was, he’d decided the best thing to do was to simply talk to her and make sure they were okay in both the friendship and working arenas, then resume their previous platonic relationship as if he hadn’t thought about having sex with her when he saw her in that red dress.

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. She didn’t know where his thoughts had headed that night, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her, but after being on the road for a solid month, he still wanted to see her before he went home. What did that say? That he really had entertained the notion of intimacy with his friend, or that he wanted to prove that he could overcome the desire to sleep with her? Because sleeping with Clarise would botch everything—or at least it could—and he wasn’t willing to risk it. He cared about her,
knew
her, more than any of the women he’d dated throughout the past few years, and he believed it was because they had kept it at the friendship level. Ethan wasn’t a fool; he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t commit. Was it because, as his brother had hinted, he was married to the business? Maybe. But he was bound and determined that Eubanks Elegant Apparel would become the premiere fine clothing store for the nation, and that wouldn’t happen if his focus wasn’t on the company 24/7. Hell, he’d spent Christmas and New Year’s on the road; didn’t that say where his heart was? However, he had called Clarise on both occasions, because she was his friend. Surely that was why he felt compelled to call her—to hear her voice—on those special days.

Ethan groaned aloud. Twenty more minutes until he reached her apartment complex. He’d only been there once before. She’d been sick and hadn’t been able to make it to work, but she had wanted to review some clothing samples from home, so Ethan volunteered to bring them. That time, he’d barely crossed the threshold, since she was determined to keep him from “catching anything.” She’d looked so cute in an oversized pink T-shirt and gray sweats, with furry gray slippers in the shape of smiling mice on her feet. Ethan swallowed. Was it normal that he remembered every detail of what she’d been wearing that day? Sure it was. He dealt in the clothing industry; therefore, he noticed clothes. But he hadn’t merely noticed her clothes; he’d noticed Clarise, away from her working persona. She’d been at home and comfortable, and that was different than the Clarise he saw every day. Even their Friday coffee chats happened directly after work, so she was still pretty much in business mode. But that day, she was merely Clarise, his friend, who was sick, and he’d wanted to say to hell with “catching anything,” waltz inside and take over caring for her. However, she’d shooed him out the door in nothing flat and assured him that her “Granny Gert” would take care of things. Ethan had left, but he’d also phoned her several times over that three-day period to make sure that her grandmother was in fact taking care of his friend. Naturally, she was, and naturally, Ethan attributed his desire to check on her to friendship, because that was all it was, a friend caring about a friend.

He took a deep breath, blew it out and exited the interstate near her apartment complex. Hopefully, Clarise’s grandmother had followed through with her promise to tell the guard at the gate to let him in. She’d sure sounded strange on the phone, but then again, from what he remembered of meeting Gertrude Robinson last year at the corporate picnic, she was an eccentric, fun-loving lady who probably would come across as outlandish during any conversation, on the telephone or not.

He’d expected Clarise to answer when he phoned her apartment, but she’d often told him that her grandmother happened to spend a good deal of time visiting Clarise’s side of the duplex. Besides, it was probably best that Gertrude Robinson picked up the phone; if Clarise had answered, he might have simply informed her over the phone that he wasn’t going to Gasparilla, and he should tell her in person. One, because he suspected she was only going because he’d coaxed her into it over numerous coffee chats, and two, because he wanted to see if that electricity that zinged between them at the Christmas party, at least on his end, could be harnessed.

Chapter 6

C
larise snapped the lid on the Tupperware bowl that held the remainder of Granny Gert’s pintos, opened the fridge and slid it inside, next to the bowl of leftover turnip greens and a large silver square of foil-wrapped corn bread. She hadn’t been able to eat more than a few bites, mainly because she couldn’t get her mind off her upcoming trip . . . and Ethan. Her phone rang, and she checked the caller ID to see yet another “unknown number.” Knowing that Babette’s info would display her name, Clarise let it ring, then listened to the loud click when the caller hung up on the answering machine. “Telemarketer,” she said, turning off the kitchen light and moving into her living room to find her purse and fish out the how-to-strip video. She still needed to call her sister, but first things first—she also needed to learn how to remove her top seductively. After popping the video in the VCR portion of her entertainment center, she shoved the coffee table out of the way and prepared to watch, learn and practice.

She’d planned to give it a try immediately, but found herself sitting on the sofa throughout the entire shebang, merely viewing the woman on the balcony as she tempted the men below with her impressive bosom. After the video ended, Clarise grabbed the remote control from its perch on the arm of the sofa, snatched a notebook from the top of the coffee table, and pressed
REWIND.
Then she watched the display again and took notes, annotating plenty of details. Hey, she was a planner, and this technique definitely called for careful planning. Figuring the third time was the charm, she pressed
REWIND
once more and stood. And when the woman once again began undressing for the crowd, so did Clarise.

The stripping section of the video was extremely short, so within a matter of seconds, Clarise had swayed her hips, pulled her blouse out of her skirt (in a sexy manner, she hoped) and unbuttoned the top three buttons. With what she believed was a sultry smile, she slid the last button through the hole and let her blouse fall open. She thought about what she was doing and nearly laughed out loud; this certainly wasn’t the way she spent her usual Thursday evenings, but then again, this wasn’t a usual week. Typically, she’d already have her weekend activities mapped out, courtesy of the
TV Guide
and her
Dining for One
cookbook, but not this weekend.
This
weekend, she’d bare her soul, and everything else, in Tampa. And if she was going to put all of—she glanced down and flinched—
this
out there, she sure wanted to get it right.

Encouraged by the chants and cheers of the partying crowd on the video, she quickly released the front closure of her bra before she had a chance to change her mind. The Robinson Treasures, as Granny Gert called them, sprang free.

She turned her attention back to the Pirate Fest video, where a tall, drop-dead-gorgeous Adonis in full pirate garb stood in the center of the crowd with one hand cradling his drink and the other pressed to his heart. Would Ethan dress like a pirate at Gasparilla? Probably not, but right now, Clarise mentally put his face on the pirate hunk’s body, for inspiration. Have mercy, she’d need a whole lot of what Granny Gert called “gumption” if she was going to pull this off.

A puff of cool air entered the room when the heating unit in her duplex whirred to life. The Robinson Treasures tingled as the breeze quickly converted from frigid to toasty. She swallowed. January in Birmingham didn’t lend itself to the necessary warmth for baring your body at a downtown parade. However, Rachel and Jesilyn had promised that Tampa would provide plenty of heat . . . from the climate as well as the partying crowd.

“Come on, darlin’. You’re killing us,” Adonis drawled, his Southern accent even stronger than his alcohol. Clarise examined the hand against his chest. Wide palms, long fingers. She ran her top teeth over her lower lip and wondered if it were true what they said about men with big hands. Ethan had big hands. Nice. Big. Hands. Clarise had noticed, a few times. When he displayed clothing samples from new product lines at the weekly staff meetings, she forced herself to concentrate on the exquisite quality of the garments rather than those captivating hands. How was she supposed to watch those long fingers reverently touch a Hermès scarf without wondering what it would feel like to have them caressing her skin? And as head of the Women’s Department, Clarise really needed to pay attention to the details, which she did, as long as she kept her mind off those hands.

“Aren’t ya gonna show us something?” that sexy Southern accent continued from the guy on the television screen. He flashed a megawatt smile and made her belly flutter. That was her cue. Clarise knew he’d ask, and she was ready. She snatched a glance at her notes, then sucked in her breath and waited for his next instruction. It would come in exactly forty-eight seconds. She’d timed it. One thousand one . . . one thousand two . . .

Exhaling thickly, she focused on his baby blue eyes. She loved blue eyes, always had, probably because her own were so dang dark she couldn’t tell where the iris began and the pupil ended. Not an ounce of color, nothing attention grabbing at all, which was just as well, since she spent most of her time trying to hide the remainder of her abundant body. But not anymore. After thirty years of perfecting her wallflower image, she had a chance to set herself free, let all her insecurities and inhibitions disappear and show the world, or at least most of Tampa, the real Clarise Robinson, the one she dreamed of each night, a girl who would drink and dance and party and have fun, bare her body and be proud of its bounty. And have monkey sex with Ethan Eubanks before Pirate Fest ended.

She licked her lips. Swallowed hard. Her ready-for-anything sister, Babette, would have no trouble baring her body to the masses at Gasparilla. She’d done it last year, in fact, when she’d taken Clarise’s place. But then again, Babette’s body was worthy of a Pirate Fest showing; Clarise’s, on the other hand, was more conducive for a Fat Fest showing. She frowned, a little, then remembered Granny Gert’s motto:
“Curves are where it’s at, Clarise.”
Taking a deep breath, she boosted her confidence once more. She did have curves, lots of them, and tomorrow she would flaunt her surplus and get what she wanted . . . Ethan. Hopefully.

Not realizing that she only had one man in mind for her wild adventure in Tampa, Jesilyn and Rachel had suggested Clarise cozy up to one of the gorgeous guys from work during the trip. All of the department heads were going, since Ethan footed the bill for each of them to attend the annual corporate bonding excursion. No doubt, each was planning to get hot and heated with someone at Gasparilla. When those modern-day pirates invade the city, like Jose Gasparilla’s pirates did so long ago, the guys from Eubanks Elegant Apparel would undoubtedly want to perform an invasion too, invading a woman’s bed. Surely, Ethan was planning on the same thing. Would he think about having a bit of no-holds-barred, wild and frantic sex with “best buddy” Clarise? She blew her bangs out of her eyes while her shoulders dropped a notch. Who was she kidding? Wild, frantic sex? Shoot, she’d settle for mild, lukewarm. Or any activity that involved Ethan Eubanks pressed against her. As long as it’d been, that’d be all she needed to work into a lather.

No,
she silently commanded, straightening her back and lifting her chest. She refused to settle for tepid. She wanted hot, boiling, exhilarating sex, and that’s what she’d get. Toe-curling, eye-glazing, heart-stopping sex, better than she’d ever had. Clarise winced. Better than she’d ever had wasn’t saying much. Shoot, sex with the lights on would extend her current bedroom repertoire. She needed a better goal, or several better goals.

She glanced at her blue notebook, perched on the coffee table. For the past few days, she’d studied the Pirate Fest brochures, the parade schedules and practically all of the Internet sites advertising the event. While she’d outlined the must-see parades, she hadn’t acknowledged the activities she most wanted to accomplish during her trip, not on paper, anyway. Flipping past the pages of parade routes, Clarise grabbed a pen. She’d always been a list person, loved setting goals and feeling that major sense of accomplishment when she checked them off one by one. Why should her “Topless in Tampa” adventure be any different? After all, she knew what she wanted. Sex with the lights on, for starters. She wrote it down, smiled. Finally, a real goal, but that wasn’t nearly enough, and if she was going to do this, she wasn’t going halfway.

Grinning, she scribbled
sex outside.
Sex. Outside. Her nipples puckered at the mere thought. But she didn’t want
just
outside. With her pulse racing, she amended her list to include different kinds of outside—in the grass, for sure, and on a beach; those beach scenes in romance novels sounded
hot.
Water sloshing around her legs while she and her lover tore into each other like animals in heat. Yep, she’d try that. Tampa had plenty of beach to offer.

She bit her lip. There was one more kind of outside sex she wanted more than the others. Before she lost her nerve, she wrote it down.
Under-the-bleachers sex.
Clarise listened to those locker room conversations throughout her teen years. When she heard them talk about bleacher sex, that had been the most intriguing thing she had ever heard. She definitely wanted bleacher sex.