Authors: Lisa Logan
An uneasy twinge nudged Dominique’s chest. Yes, the pair would almost certainly join at the pelvic bones. But they weren’t on Easy Street just yet. Things could still go wrong, and then Fran wouldn’t get her proof. Fortunately, there was a backup plan in place that two members of the group were unaware of. Ridelle was one of them.
A phone call in the morning would set things in motion. Hopefully there would be time to get everything in place before Ridelle’s hormonal locomotive shot out of control.
Ridelle hung up the phone, staring at the receiver as though it might come to life and hit her for what she’d just done.
Scooting back on the rust-colored comforter, she tried to focus on all the details that needed to come together in the few short hours before tonight. Thoughts of the main event, however, poked holes in her thought process.
It had been two weeks since the shopping excursion, and she’d only just now drummed up the courage to call Bruce about the package in his trunk. For the first few days, Ridelle thought he might be the one to phone. When that didn’t happen, she knew she’d failed Fran.
She watched as a fly scaled the bathroom door, crawling in excited spurts toward the ceiling. “Stick around, pal,” she said. “There’ll be plenty fly-on-the-wall drama here tonight, for a change.”
He’d only kissed her that night, and she was the one who’d pursued him like a mad cat on the prowl. Yet she’d suddenly panicked just when her awkward efforts seemed about ready to pay off. The first lunch at Odette’s after the shopping debacle, the women were sympathetic. Today’s, however, contained a fair amount of second thoughts and dark, desperate looks from Fran. It was coming down to a jump-or-get-off-the-diving-board thing, and she’d decided to jump. Frannie had closed escrow on that choice, mentioning that Bruce had been sullen, edgy, and even more unpredictable than normal. Ridelle could have lived without hearing about his constant demands on Fran for sweaty and unsatisfying sex and nasty remarks, but now she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of personal responsibility for the current fallout.
Still, darker, nagging thoughts about her friend’s husband stoked the guilt fires even hotter. Who did Bruce think about while he ground out his frustrations with the wife pinned beneath him? Was it an honest effort to do an about-face and resuscitate his flagging marriage? Or was he reliving the night he’d kissed someone else under a Princeton moon?
Her gaze wandered through the afternoon light trying to push its way through the bedroom curtains. The silver case on the floor against the bathroom wall caught her eye. Dominique’s tawdry little reminder to chin up and take one for the team.
Are you falling in love with Bruce?
Hell, no. He was too old, too married, and she found the treatment of his wife and deplorable moral code repulsive. Still, she had to admit that her interest in what lay behind his zipper defied reason. After some soul searching, Ridelle had realized Dominique was right, on a certain level. Ridelle
was
falling in love, but not with the man himself. She was falling for the idea of the whole thing. Sneaking about on forbidden trysts, discussing desire with a man over an intimate dinner—it was dangerous, exciting. Envisioning a man who wanted her badly enough to forsake his vows was a guilty, but intoxicating rush. The glamour of it glittered in her mind with all the intense excitement of a James Bond movie. Still, she knew damn good and well that was not the reality. In reality, Ridelle had a completely nonexistent romantic life, and the fantasy with Bruce was no more real than the images she conjured up on nights she used her own hands to bring herself off.
After a distracted shower, she dropped her towel and stood in the light spilling from the walk-in closet, taking careful inventory of her naked form in the full-length mirror. Still dewy from her liberal dunking in hot water, she wondered if he would be pleased, or turned off by the sight of her. Her breasts were smaller than she would prefer, particularly in light of her new role as a sizzling paramour. Still, they were round and rode high, seemingly unaware that gravity would someday force a visual introduction between nipple and navel. Her abdomen skimmed fairly flat, and a beauty mark punctuated the left side of her belly button. Waist and hips lacked dangerous curves. She was no Barbie doll, or at best, one with most of the air let out. The thick triangle of curls between her thighs were a stark contrast to her pale skin, and legs that could be longer ended in toes she’d painted in a flirtier red than she normally dared.
Ridelle wandered inside the closet to retrieve the outfit decided upon for her grand seduction. Her first stop was a Victoria’s Secret bag, the contents of which were probably wondering what the hell they were doing beside the likes of Fruit of the Loom. A gift from Dominique, who insisted Ridelle would act and feel sexier if she wore secret sin next to her flesh.
Sliding into French cut panties in sheer black lace and the plunging bra to match, she tore open a package of thigh-high, self-griping hose. Ridelle questioned exotic hosiery while lounging in her own apartment, but the women had agreed it would drive the man wild.
Next came a pair of black pull-on slacks and a matching wrap-front blouse that tied on the side. The latter had a daring enough neckline to necessitate the plunging black bra. The ensemble was designed to be an inviting easy-on, easy-off deal that Fran had suggested.
Dressed in her tramp wear, she finished the look with delicate black barrettes, a diamond solitaire necklace, and low pumps.
After another critique in the mirror, she tugged open the bedroom curtains to gawk at the curious rigging outside the window. Pulling the temporarily screenless window open, she plucked off the cover of the Canon’s lens, which stared in wordless fascination at her bed. Courtesy of her father during Ridelle’s photography phase, the camera boasted enough technological doo-dadry to make it an enviable piece of equipment, including a small rectangle of plastic that operated the camera by wireless remote. With the Canon painstakingly angled and the controller in hand, she would be able to capture all manner of tawdry and incriminating poses. Lovely.
Sliding the window closed, she turned back to the room and crossed over to pull open the nightstand drawer. The remote was there, ready and willing. Yes, Ridelle was not only the star of this picture, but director and camera crew as well. Better that than someone else hanging around outside the window, watching. That was too creepy. Just knowing the photos would be seen at all caused enough of a squeamish twinge. A live audience would render her incapable of any performance at all.
She dropped the lens cover inside the drawer and extracted the remote, examining the buttons tested three days earlier. The actual camera was not visible from the bed—not at night, in any case—and leaving the adjacent bedroom lamp on would further obscure the view outdoors. The camera, on the other hand, would offer a shocking view of their bedroom gymnastics. The Canon was mounted outside to give the impression that the private eye had taken them, which would be Fran’s story when the time came.
Ridelle had practiced with the remote while lying at assorted ridiculous angles on the bed. Of course, she had yet to try it out with a full-sized male on top of her. Her heart tap danced at the thought. Still, one or two good shots would be all they’d need.
The controller in hand, she considered where to hide it. Yanking open the drawer in the midst of lovemaking would attract too much notice. Still, Bruce might discover it if it was stuffed under the pillows. Under the mattress, perhaps? She tried it, then shook her head. Too hard to access. And by the time she’d want access to it, she wouldn’t have anywhere on her person to hide it. She’d be naked.
Imagery shivered through her. She was presuming a lot of tonight. There was no guarantee things would go that far. Still, judging by the phone call she’d just made, Bruce would be arriving with more on his mind than returning a bag of DVD’s.
She replayed the call in her mind, after he’d picked up on the first ring.
“
I was hoping you’d call.”
Her heart have given a small tumble. “You were?”
“
I wanted to apologize. I was out of line. I wanted to call you, but I wasn’t sure you wanted to speak to me.”
“
I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“
I hope you didn’t just call to apologize.”
“
No, I, uh, left my bag in your car.”
He paused. “I know. I still have it. So that’s why you’re calling?”
“
Yes. No. I want to see you.”
His voice was cautious. “I’ve been thinking about you.”
“
I shouldn’t have run off. Can I ask you something?”
“
What’s that?”
Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “If I promise not to run away this time, can we try again?”
The pause was long enough to cause concern. “I can drop the bag off to you. Your place?”
Coming back to the present, her eyes landed again on the pillow. A smile crept to her lips. Sliding her hand inside the case, she dropped the controller within. Easy to reach, but not easily found.
Dumping out a square plastic laundry basket in the closet, she carried it down the hallway into the cozy living room. Done in earthy rusts and browns, the space was consumed by a three cushion sofa flanked by a pair of dark end tables, a mismatched rectangular coffee table, and a black shag throw rug beneath. Bumped against this area was a small dinette and kitchen.
A collection of newspapers, magazines, socks, and junk mail were tossed hastily into the basket. She was halfway back to the bedroom with it when there was a knock at the door.
She froze. “Oh, God. He’s here.”
All but throwing the basket in the closet, she raced down the hall and took a deep breath before pulling open the front door. Her eyes flew open to accompany her gasp at the man waiting outside.
“
Dad?”
Thomas Walters brushed past his daughter rather than await the graces of an invitation inside. Weathered eyes the same shade as his espresso suit made a quick assessment of the living room, narrowing in what appeared to be disapproval.
Following her father to the couch, they sat on opposite ends. Risking a glance at the clock, her heart leapt near her throat. “What are you doing here?”
His voice was graveled but teasing. “Nice to see you, too. I had business in town, and since my favorite daughter hasn’t called lately, I thought I’d stop by. You know Mama worries.”
The man was nothing if not a master of guilt. “Sorry. I’ve been busy.”
Frown lines puckered in deep furrows as he sniffed. “Doing what? Don’t tell me you went out and got a job?” He clutched at his chest as though such news would prove a fatal jolt.
She rolled her eyes. “No. Just stuff.”
He grunted. “You might tear yourself away from stuff every now and then to call up your personal bankers, let them know you’re still alive.”
Ridelle sighed. She really didn’t have time for one of his forays into financial sarcasm. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes took in her outfit. “You’re all dressed up. Going out?”
Meaning how much money was she about to spend, and was she spending it with anyone worth mentioning. “Pants and a shirt isn’t dressed up.”
“
And your good diamond necklace.”
“
I’m not going out. I’m expecting company.”
His eyes glittered with a mixture of hopeful suspicion. “Anyone I know?”
“
No one special. But I should let you go so I can finish picking up the house.”
He crossed his legs. “So, that’s all you’ve got for your old Dad? ‘Thanks for paying my rent, now get out’?”
She sighed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You could have called first. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have made other plans.” Least of all her current one.
He stood up, but went to the mantle over the faux fireplace. He stared at a silver-framed photo of the Walters clan—Mom and Dad, Randy, Steven, Joe, and Ridelle seated in front of a flocked tree. It was their Christmas card photo from the previous year, taken by Ridelle and her magical mystery camera.
“
Not making plans is the reason I’m here. We need to talk about the future. Your future.”
Oh, shit.
The biannual “Make good or else” speech. “Can’t we talk about that later?”
“
You’ve put it off for ten years, baby girl. If not now, when?”
She rose as well, rounding the couch to lean on it from behind. “I told you, I just needed a break from school. I’m going back in the spring.”
He laughed. “Back to what? You’ve used up every major they can throw at you. It’s time you find something and stick to it.”