Hot Legs

  As it was, his luck was prime, his orgasm was racing for the finish line, and all he could think of was the glorious prospect of unremitting, gluttonous sex with the beautiful, hot-blooded redhead sucking his cock.

  A second later, she was swallowing his come, he was trying to find enough air to draw into his heaving lungs, and the continuous beep of the open phone line was suddenly loud and clear.

  Cassie lifted her head.

  Bending over, he kissed her mouth dry.

  “You’re polite,” she murmured, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  His dark brows flickered. “It’s the least I could do to repay you.”

  She grinned. “Same here . . . although—I mean—if you don’t think me too demanding . . .” She glanced down at his rising erection.

  “He’s listening,” Bobby said, his libidinous dick already anticipating the end of her sentence. “Come here.” Lifting her to her feet, he shoved up her skirt, pulled down her panties, waited for her to lift each foot, then tossed the scrap of green lace panties on her desk. “This is fucking unbelievable,” he whispered, holding her around the waist to steady her as she settled down on his cock. “I’m figuring we’ll just fuck until we pass out.”

  “Or Arthur knocks on the door.”

  He looked at her from under his dark lashes. “Don’t rain on my parade.”

  “Don’t talk.” She kicked off her heels.

  He laughed. “Yes, ma’am.” Flexing his hips, he thrust upward hard, his hands still on her waist.

  She couldn’t move.

  He knew it.

  She could only absorb the powerful upsurge—with gratitude and a breathy little sigh and the most welcoming of cunts.

  “Let me know when you’ve had enough,” he whispered, a warning of sorts in his present ramming speed mentality.

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She was moving her hips and slippery cunt to feel him better.

  His cock surged higher, his fingers flexed around her waist, and he powered up to meet her rhythm.

  It was a frantic, pumping rush to orgasm, galvanic, tempestuous, as if they’d not just come—a curious, shared selfishness of purpose. Panting, flushed, their hearts pounding, they climaxed only moments later with impenitent exultation.

  “We need a bed,” he gasped.

  “And privacy,” she breathed.

  “And some tissue,” he muttered. “This is going to be messy.”

  “Don’t move.” Leaning back with a suppleness owed exclusively to sexually heated muscle tone rather to any exercise regimen, she reached for her purse.

  A packet of tissue was soon unearthed, he helped her gingerly rise from his lap without dripping on his khaki shorts, and they both wiped themselves dry.

  “Now I need some food,” she said, straightening her skirt and blouse.

  “Tell me what and where. And I’m thinking screw Arthur. We should be able to walk out together as long as I keep my hands to myself.”

  “We are working together.” She slipped on her strappy green shoes.

  He looked up from zipping his fly. “Nice work.”

  “You, too. Thanks. I should last for an hour or so. No pressure,” she added with a grin.

  “No pressure, believe me.”

  “I’m not too demanding?”

  “I’ll let you know if you are.”

  “Would you really?”

  “It’s not going to happen.” His smile was serene. “Guaranteed. Your house or mine? A restaurant first or take-out?”

  “My house. My clothes are there.”

  “We’ll stop at my place then, and I’ll get a change of clothes for the morning.”

  She smiled. “You’re really easy to be with.”

  He smiled back. “I like what I’m doing.”

  FIFTEEN

  BOBBY’S CELL PHONE WENT OFF AS THEY walked into Cassie’s house, and the minute he began talking she knew it was Arthur. Anxiety started tripping through her brain.

  Bobby smiled and shook his head, telling her to relax.

  And then he proceeded to converse with Arthur as though he was alone with all the time in the world.

  After he hung up, he said, “Sorry for talking so long, but I didn’t want him to pick up any clues. He asked me over for a drink.”

  “Do you have to go?”

  “Kinda. But come with me. We could still be working—it’s not very late.”

  “God no. I’m not as blasé as you. He’d tell in a minute.”

  “Come with me in the car then. I won’t stay long. I like knowing you’re waiting; it eases my addiction.”

  “As if.”

  “As for sure. You’re my drug of choice.”

  “You just have a primed libido.”

  “Well, that, too, but come with. One drink and I’ll be back in the car.”

  “When do you have to go?”

  “Not for a half-hour.” He grinned. “Plenty of time.”

  “Perfect,” she said, really meaning it. “And I’ll go if I can have take-out. I’ll eat in the car while you’re with Arthur.”

  “And then I’ll eat in the car when I come back out.” His smile was wicked.

  “Only if you’re talking about food with Joe a foot away.”

  “Joe’s busy tonight, and I thought we were staying in.” He shrugged. “We’ll take a cab.”

  “If my car wasn’t still at work . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. Call a cab. Tell him a half-hour.” His smile was indulgent. “Will that be enough time to humor you momentarily?”

  She grinned. “A first course, anyway.”

  He was thinking more—appetizer. He had plans for a full-scale meal orgy later that night.

  SIXTEEN

  THEY WERE SWEATING SO MUCH WHEN THEY got into the cab and gave the driver directions, he took one look and said, “It’s not a good idea to run this time of day. The sun’s too hot.”

  “That’s what I told her,” Bobby said, shooting Cassie a grin. “But she’s gotta have her own way.”

  “It ain’t healthy, lady.”

  “He only complains afterward. He can outrun me any day.” Her gaze was amused. “Can’t you, darling?”

  “I guess if I die of a heart attack, it’s a good way to go.”

  The cabbie was watching them in his rearview mirror and suddenly understood. “You’re not married.”

  “Not yet,” Bobby said, putting his arm around Cassie.

  “I recommend it. Been married thirty years, four kids, and two grandkids. I still like goin’ home at night.”

  “What do you say, darling? Want to fly to Las Vegas?”

  “Right after I fly to the moon.”

  “I’ll ask you again after you’ve eaten. She’s touchy when she’s hungry,” Bobby said to the cabbie with a mano a mano quirk of his brows. “You know women.”

  “Damn right. I’ve got three girls and a wife. It don’t pay to talk to any of them until they’ve had breakfast. No offense, lady.”

  Cassie wasn’t really listening. After Bobby had joked about flying to Las Vegas, her brain had gone into full fantasy mode. She could already picture her Vera Wang gown, dozens of white roses and lilacs, Dom Pérignon, and, naturally, a ten-carat ring. She was switching the venue from Las Vegas, though, visualizing Florence this time of year. One of those small neighborhood Renaissance churches with the fifty-foot ceilings would be nice—someplace intimate for the ceremony. Not that she actually contemplated anything so outré as marriage after knowing Bobby for two days, after knowing his reputation, after only recently escaping the misery of divorce. But in her current cheerful mood, she was disposed to crazy flights of fancy where Bobby Serre figured large. Large, of course, the glorious operative word.

  It was sheer bliss to bask in the afterglow of mind-blowing sex. It was heavenly, and while the men segued into the usual fishing stories de rigueur in Minnesota once the fishing season opened, she only half listened, more inclined to exist in her rare, Zenlike sta
te of grace—not that she actually understood Zen. But she’d recall a wise phrase on occasion from those little instruction books she bought where you could flip through page after page of feel-good, inspiring verses, and the one currently looping through her mind said it all:

  Things to do today: Exhale, inhale, exhale. Ahhhh.

  Which was exactly what she was doing, thank you very much, or actually thank Bobby Serre very much. He deserved a medal or whatever Zen Buddhists gave as rewards. Sex with him was really divine—very healing and clarifying, like a good massage and a facial. Or divine like finding the most fabulous outfit for 70 percent off—one of those little miracles of life. Or extra divine like eating the perfect egg-salad sandwich with tiny bits of onion and relish, tons of mayonnaise and fresh rye bread that you’re supposed to eat with mindful and respectful attention. Just thinking about it made her hungry. “Stop at the deli on Forty-Seventh and Chicago,” she abruptly said.

  She would reflect on the healing powers of sex while eating her egg-salad sandwich.

  A short time later, they were back in the cab with two large bags of food, enough really to feed a family—or in this case, Bobby Serre’s remarkable appetite. It was astonishing—okay, irritating as well, but only mildly so in her new tranquility—how much he could eat. Not that she hadn’t chosen three desserts. But consider how impossible it was to be prudent with the lights in those refrigerator cases glistening off the shiny chocolate frostings and puffs of whipped cream atop various fruit tarts and cheesecakes. Only a saint could resist such temptation.

  In the remaining thirty blocks to Arthur’s, Bobby ate a serving of lasagna to tide him over, and Cassie savored her egg-salad sandwich in an aura of contentment and smiles.

  “One drink and I’ll be back,” Bobby said as they pulled up to Arthur’s grand Georgian pile on the lake boulevard.

  “I gotta park down the block,” the cabbie said. “The cops tow here.”

  Cassie’s heart did one of those happy flip-flops. The thought of sitting outside Arthur’s house had been patently nerve-racking.

  Bobby leaned over and gave her a kiss. “See you soon.”

  The man had all the moves, she thought, her lips tingling faintly from his kiss, her wanton little cunt doing a flutter of delight in anticipation. He was small-town sweet and big-city smooth. There was no discounting his flawless looks, either. She wanted him about as much as she wanted the double-fudge chocolate cake just waiting for her in that little gold-trimmed box.

  How nice. She could have them both tonight.

  And barring Arthur having Superman vision, she was safe and sound in this cab until Bobby returned.

  A jazz station was playing on the radio, as though in perfect conjunction with her lazy, blissful mood. Sliding into a corner of the backseat, she put her legs up, leaned back, and indulged in her deli smorgasbord, intent on trying a few bites of everything.

  SEVENTEEN

  “YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DRESS FOR ME,” Bobby drawled, giving Arthur the once-over in his tux.

  “It’s the members’ preview tonight. I assumed you didn’t want to go.”

  “Rightly assumed.” One drink, definitely. His luck was holding.

  “Jessica has a conflicting charity event,” Arthur explained as he ushered Bobby into the coolness of the screened porch. “We’ll have you over for dinner before you go. You’ll like her. She’s a . . . delight.”

  Bobby had been tempted to insert the word young in Arthur’s brief pause, but he restrained his impulse. Each of Arthur’s wives was younger than the last. Hopefully this was the final one or the police might be involved next time.

  “Jessica’s a first-rate tennis player, too. Sit. I’ll get us a drink.”

  Arthur prided himself on his tennis game. “Shared interests,” Bobby pleasantly said. “Isn’t that what holds a marriage together?”

  “My preference is great blow jobs,” Arthur said with a lecherous smile.

  Some things never changed, Bobby thought, Arthur’s locker-room mentality undiminished over the years. “Whatever turns you on,” Bobby murmured.

  “Vodka, gin, cognac?” Arthur stood before a drink table.

  “Vodka, three ice cubes.”

  “Speaking of blow jobs, Cassandra appears willing. Although I never took her for such an unblushing romantic; more the type who would eat you alive, I thought.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Bobby kept his voice even with effort, the words blow job and Cassandra recalling recent activities that quickened the blood flow to his cock. Not a good idea with Arthur’s lurid imagination and eagle eye. “I prefer keeping our association businesslike. It saves problems in the long run.”

  “One learns, right? You’ve had your share of women wanting you to stay, I suspect.” Arthur flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Or so the stories go.”

  “I lead a quiet life. Despite the gossip. Montana or Budapest, mostly.”

  “Except for Cannes during the festival,” Arthur said, walking over and handing Bobby his drink.

  “Once or twice,” Bobby modestly replied. “Usually on business.”

  Arthur sat down opposite him. “High-priced artwork down there, no doubt.”

  “Quite a bit.”

  “Cheers.” Arthur lifted his glass. “To a quick recovery of the Rubens.”

  Bobby raised his glass. “It doesn’t look like professionals at least. Although that’s good and bad.”

  “Meaning?”

  “With professionals, the word’s out on the street quickly. A recovery price is negotiated, and voilà. You have your painting back. Art theft is the number-three enterprise in the world behind drug trafficking and weapons trafficking. Seven billion a year. You want this to be a professional job.”

  “If it isn’t, then what?” Arthur asked, not that he wasn’t aware in general of the illegal traffic in art, but he’d never personally dealt with it.

  “With amateurs, one never knows the motivation. Does some wacko want to put it in his porno-lined closet and look at it at night? Is it some game of wits where simply accomplishing the lift is the rush and the painting is incidental—and unfortunately, often tossed?” Bobby added with a faint scowl. “Is it revenge for some slight? Those, too, don’t see the light of day often. The perpetrators don’t want money; they want vengeance.” Bobby half lifted his glass. “Is there anyone you can think of who might wish to harm you or the museum?”

  Arthur shrugged. “I can’t think of anyone.”

  Knowing what he knew from Cassie, Bobby marveled at such obtuseness. “I’m about halfway through the staff interviews. Your guards weren’t derelict so much as untrained; your security needs to be upgraded. I’ll give you a printout that should be useful. As for the rest of the curators and temps, there’s still a possibility one of them might be involved, but—” he lifted one shoulder. “It’s rare.”

  “I have faith in you. You’re the best. So tell me about your little redhead waiting in Budapest.”

  Arthur wasn’t really interested in the theft. He’d spent a lifetime delegating authority, his idea of a director’s role was that of benign sovereign. Servants and bureaucrats did whatever work was required. His nose for gossip, however, was insatiable.

  “There’s nothing to tell. I met her skiing last winter. She happened to be in Budapest the same time as I and—”

  “Happened?” Arthur archly remarked.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He wasn’t about to say he’d come home one night and found her in his bed.

  “What does she look like? What does she do?”

  “She’s beautiful. She models for the Milan shows. She parties when she’s not in Milan. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “You dog, you.”

  “I work most of the time, Arthur,” Bobby mildly said. “My leisure time is minimal.”

  “But that redhead’s still there waiting for you in Budapest,” Arthur said with arched brows. “Sometimes I envy you your amusements. Young cunt everywhere, no museu
m board looking over your shoulder, no alimony,” he added with a grumble.

  “If you have kids you have to pay for them. You can’t complain about that.”

  Arthur sighed. “I know. And they’re good kids, but it’s costing me a fortune.”

  Luckily you have one, Bobby wanted to say. “There’s always a trade-off with family.”

  “Is that why you’re single and footloose?”

  “There’s no particular reason. It just happened that way.”

  “Claire’s not remarried. Is that happenstance, too?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Honestly—you never talk to her?”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “There’s a rumor she might get the costume directorship at the Met.”

  “I heard. She’d be good.”

  “No regrets?”

  “It was over a long time ago. Let’s leave it at that.”

  His voice had turned curt, and even Arthur, who wasn’t known for his perception, took note and quickly said, “I hope none of my family connections get in the way of the investigation. I do talk to Claire on occasion. She and Sarah went to Bennington together as you probably know; she’s godmother to Flora.” He shrugged faintly. “Everyone knows everyone in this business.”

  “Don’t worry. Your friends don’t have to be my friends.” Bobby set down his glass. He didn’t want to talk about Claire. What used to be good in their marriage had gone sour. He wasn’t sure why. But he’d wanted out when it did. And apparently, so did Claire.

  “Another drink?”

  “No thanks. I have some paperwork to go over tonight.”

  “With Cassandra?”

  He couldn’t help it, Bobby thought. Arthur was an incorrigible voyeur. “No. Alone. Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you tomorrow.”