Julie Kenner – Silent Desires (страница 2)

“So, what then?” Joan asked. “Three days a week?” Ronnie was finishing up her Ph.D. and looking into teaching. Plus, she wanted to spend more time with Jack. That, coupled with the store’s lousy financial condition, had prompted her to consider cutting back the hours. A decision Joan didn’t like at all.

“Something like that,” Ronnie said. “I’ll think about it after we get back. Don’t worry, you know I won’t cut your hours until you’ve found a job to make up the difference.”

Joan opened her mouth to press the issue, to tell Ronnie that she didn’t want another job. That she wanted to be Ronnie’s partner. Wanted a permanent stake in the business, and was willing to work her tail off to get it. But before she could speak, two honks from the taxi echoed through the store.

“I’m going to make us late,” Ronnie said. “Can it wait?”

“Sure,” Joan said, trying for nonchalant. She’d just talk to Ronnie when she got back. And by then, Joan should be in a much better position to convince her boss that bringing Joan in as an owner made all the sense in the world.

“Great.” Ronnie leaned over the counter and gave Joan a quick hug. “I know you’ll take perfect care of the place,” she said.

Joan nodded, wished them a safe trip, and then found herself waving to an empty doorway.

They were gone. Now she was in charge.

It was a nice feeling, one she wanted to last beyond their four short weeks of vacation. She loved this store. Loved the musty smell of ancient books. Loved the customers who came inside, some with definite purpose, some who wandered aimlessly, drifting among the stacks until, as if by magic, they found a book that touched their soul. And she loved the variety of books that filled the shelves—literature, rare illustrated tomes, first editions of biographies and popular fiction, ancient travel guides and so much more.

And, of course, Joan loved the erotica. Ronnie’s specialty was Victorian-era erotica, and she’d made a point of keeping the store well stocked with rare works from that period and others. During downtimes at the store, Joan would peruse the collection, reading everything from Anïs Nin to D. H. Lawrence to The Pillow Book.

Joan had never considered herself uninformed where men were concerned, but this was new territory. The literature thrilled and inspired her, pushing her imagination to decadent limits. Unprofessional, maybe, but she couldn’t help but get turned on by the graphic prose and the raw, unrestricted emotion generated within the pages. Forbidden fruit, and she loved studying it, learning about it, and, yes, losing herself in it.

Now Joan wandered among the stacks, the dim light from the single lamp at the front of the store causing provocative shadows to slide across the shelves in front of her as she moved toward her favorite section of the store—and her favorite book.

When she’d come to work for Ronnie fresh out of college, Joan hadn’t been familiar with erotic literature. Oh, she knew it existed, sure. But she hadn’t known it intimately. Hadn’t known the value of a leather-bound edition, much less the depths of pleasure that the mere words on the page could impart. She shivered—a little tingle of anticipation—as her gaze scanned the shelves.

She found the volume she was looking for, a book from the late 1800s, bound in green boards and in pristine condition. Very fine, in bookstore terminology. The book’s author was anonymous, but Joan didn’t care. She was interested in the words, not who put them there.

And, oh, those words. Enticing and provocative, the stories could send her pulse racing as effectively as a lover’s touch.

Licking her lips, she trailed her fingertip down the spine, delighting in the rough texture of the cloth, the slightly different feel of the title stamped in gold on the spine: The Pleasures of a Young Woman.

It was the kind of book she wished she could afford for herself, and yet she knew that would never happen. Extremely rare, the book was believed by scholars to be a collection created by some contemporaries of Oscar Wilde. The collection supposedly chronicled the erotic adventures of Mademoiselle X as she traveled from Paris to London. The young miss must have had quite an adventure, because the book read like a personal—very personal—anthology, describing in both words and pictures her forays into every erotic situation imaginable.

Such pleasures…

For just a moment, Joan wondered if her resolution was foolish—if swearing off frivolous dating was simply a masochistic exercise that would do nothing more than keep her frustrated.

No.

With her eyes closed, she pressed the book to her chest. She wasn’t swearing off men, just foolish dating of the wrong sort of man. Her door was wide open to Mr. Right. Absolutely. And if she met a guy with Mr. Right potential, they’d just have to take it slow and steady. That might leave her frustrated, but that was a state of being Joan could take care of on her own. And with a book like this…

Her fingers caressed the book as her mind wandered. It would be so easy. To take the book upstairs. To curl up naked under the crisp, cool sheets. And then to slowly, so slowly, open the book and drink in the pages.

She sighed, her body heating with anticipation. She knew this book. Every word, every nuance. Knew which passages were written with a light, almost humorous, hand, and which passages spoke to her soul, enticing her to stroke her breasts, her belly, and then dip her fingers down, down, down.

She shivered, and then, pulling herself together, firmly returned the book to its place on the shelf. It was almost dawn. She needed her rest. She did not need to lose herself in the steamy heat of erotic prose.

Still…

She paused, her hand hovering near the book. The store was closed on Sunday, so she could rest all day if she wanted to. Besides, she wasn’t sleepy. Just the opposite. She was wired. And the delicious prose was a distraction. Practically a necessity. After all, she’d sworn off casual sex and random dating. No little touches on the dance floor, no tickling of toes under the back booth at Xylo’s. And absolutely no doing the wild thing. Definitely torture.

If she had the company of a warm book, though…well, a book and her imagination could make all the difference in the world.

Convinced, Joan slipped The Pleasures of a Young Woman back off the shelf. With a little sigh, she held it close, and then headed up the stairs to her apartment and to her bed.

A glass of wine, the faint strains of music and the pages of this book. Heaven. Or, at least, as close as she could get to heaven by herself.

“NOW THERE’S a looker,” Leo said, pointing across the smoke-filled SoHo bar at a sultry redhead in too-tight Lycra who looked like she’d paid mightily for hair, tits and ass. “Bet she’d be a tiger between the sheets.”

Bryce shot his attorney a frown, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice rattled against the side. He took a sip, letting his gaze skim down the woman as the Scotch did a slow burn down his throat. “Not bad,” he said, but without much enthusiasm.

“What’s the matter?” Leo prompted. “Not your type?”

“I don’t have a type,” Bryce said. If a woman struck his fancy, he was more than willing to schedule time for her between the sheets. But a type? What was the point? Besides, he wasn’t on the lookout for a woman to take up permanent residence in his life. He didn’t have the time or the inclination, and he sure as hell didn’t need the distraction.

“You ought to consider settling down,” Leo said. “It would be good for your image.”

“And she’s the kind of woman I should install in a house in the suburbs?” Bryce asked, nodding toward the redhead.

Leo scowled. “No, she’s the kind of woman you screw.”

Bryce had to laugh. Leave it to Leo to get to the heart of the matter. Hell, that was what made him such a damn good attorney.

“Get it out of your system,” Leo said, “and then come talk to me. Marjorie knows a lot of nice women who’d love to land you as a husband.”

Bryce shook his head, interested in neither landing nor being landed. He didn’t have the time for the sort of real relationship that would provide a solid foundation for marriage. Of course, considering his own parents’ marriage, Bryce had wondered if that mythical solid foundation even existed. He’d thought they’d figured it out. And then ten years ago their idyllic life had crashed and burned. His mother had been having an affair. A long-standing one, apparently, and she’d run off with her lover. All along, she’d put up the perfect front, projected the perfect illusion. And Bryce had never even had a clue.

He didn’t intend to let history repeat itself.

“What do you say?” Leo prodded. “The media’s been all over this Carpenter Shipping deal. Three hundred jobs, Bryce. That’s a lot of folks out of work. They’re saying you don’t care about the little people.”

Bryce ran a hand through his hair. “I know what they say, Leo. I also know what they don’t say—that whenever I buy a company and trim the fat, the business increases its efficiency by over twenty percent. That’s a lot of extra cash in the investors’ pockets, you know.”