Mating Game Read online

  She wiped a hand across her forehead. She and Tally had been working hard for the last two hours, rearranging and shifting things so Tally would have room to move in. Unlike Nola, who felt grubby and worn-out, her slender, dark-haired friend still looked perky and fresh.

  Nola shook her head. “I should be asking you if you’re sure. I have no idea what’s going to happen in the long run, and when my lease runs out, you could be out of luck.”

  Tally shrugged elegantly. “I had to get out of that condo sooner or later. Those three women were making me nuts.” Tally had been living with several coworkers from the television station, and apparently their personalities didn’t mesh.

  Nola opened her dresser drawers one at a time to see if she had cleared enough room for her friend’s belongings. “You know you can use anything of mine you want to.”

  Tally sat cross-legged on the bed. “I still can’t believe you’re giving up your photography business.”

  Nola sighed and flopped into the small armchair she’d found in a thrift store. “Let’s call it a semipermanent hiatus. You know I’ve always dreamed of doing more artistic photography. Maybe this is my chance. And, besides, I don’t have much choice if I want to keep the house. I’ve updated my Web site with a brief explanation about a ‘family emergency,’ and I’ve referred my upcoming bookings to fellow photographers. Krystal is going to persuade an artist she knows to move into my portion of the loft until that lease runs out. What else can I do?”

  Tally pretended to sulk. “You could stay here. I never knew you were such a money-grubber.”

  Nola grinned. “The lawyer is still settling outstanding bills. So he wasn’t sure about the final total. It may not be as much as he thinks.”

  “But the house and land are worth a bundle, surely.”

  “I guess. But, Tally, I’m serious. I don’t give a flip about the money. I’ve been happy here in Chicago. But the house . . . I wish you could see it. It’s magical. My family’s entire history has been lived out within those walls. I can no more let that go than I could give up my cameras. I can’t wait for you to come down and visit me this summer.”

  Tally bit her lip, her expression troubled. “You and your husband , you mean?” Her voice was sarcastic. “This is nuts, Nola. You’re turning your whole life upside down for some Machiavellian marriage and a moth-eaten Southern mansion. How in the hell are you going to find a man that quickly? Not that you aren’t a hot chick, but honestly, Nola, do you have any prospects at all?”

  Nola nodded slowly. “Actually, I do.”

  Tally raised an eyebrow. “Surely you’re not thinking about Marc.”

  Nola laughed out loud. “God, no. Marc is the definition of temporary. If I weren’t leaving town, I’m sure he’d be moving on to the next conquest pretty soon. I’m extremely fond of the guy. He’s smart and funny and really talented between the sheets, but we’re completely different people. I’ve known the score all along.”

  “And you haven’t lost your heart to him?”

  Nola patted her chest. “Got it right here.”

  “So who’s this mystery man?”

  “Billy Inman. We were high school sweethearts. I lost my virginity to him, and I happen to know he’s single at the moment. I’ve kept up with him over the years from a distance.”

  “Is he cute?”

  Nola drifted to the past for a bittersweet moment. There had been a time when Billy Inman had made her knees tremble and her heart race. “Oh, yeah,” she said with a nostalgic sigh. “He’s great.”

  “And if he’s not amenable to a shotgun wedding?”

  “Then I’ll come up with plan B.”

  That evening Nola used her key and let herself into Marc’s fabulous condo. They’d been dating only three months, and his offer of the small, yet significant piece of brass had embarrassed her at first. Just like the weekend he flew her to Paris. The trip had been fun, sure, but she wasn’t comfortable with living the lifestyle of the rich and famous. But Marc was a master of the grand gesture, and Nola hadn’t been able to find a graceful way to say no, either then or later, when he had pressed her to take his key.

  She dropped her purse on an elegant, marble-topped, cherry credenza and paused to gaze at herself in the gilt-framed mirror. Her wide-set, long-lashed brown eyes were underscored with smudgy shadows . . . the result of two consecutive sleepless nights. The unfairness of her grandmother’s will had dominated her thoughts and kept her wakeful into the wee hours of the morning. Nola had enormous life-changing decisions to make, and very little time to consider the consequences.

  Her skin, pale at the best of times, was almost translucent. Only her hair had color. The fiery red-gold didn’t come from a bottle, and the asymmetrical, chin-length style suited her personality.

  She considered herself feminine, but not a girlie-girl. It was more rewarding to make sure her subjects at the other end of a camera lens looked good than to spend time grooming and fussing with her own appearance. She’d grown up a tomboy, running wild in the woods and hills around Resnick. Now she was a respected businesswoman, but that didn’t change who she was deep down inside.

  She sighed and wandered toward the window. The view of Lake Michigan was incredible. Marc liked to have sex on the soft leather sofa with the drapes pulled wide. She’d come to enjoy it as well after her initial shyness with him had faded. Making love in this room was exciting. It made her feel daring and sensual.

  She glanced at her watch. He should be home soon. His work as a commodities broker demanded long hours, but he played as hard as he worked.

  When Nola heard the front door open a few minutes later, she tensed. Marc was not going to like what she had to say. But heck, she wasn’t too keen on it herself.

  She stood up, smoothed her taupe linen skirt, and retucked the tails of her turquoise blouse.

  He gave her a wicked grin when he saw her. His close-cropped black hair, olive skin, and aquiline profile made an impact. Marc Overmyer was a predator in the bedroom and in the financial jungle.

  She didn’t care about the money; Nola far preferred the wild man between the sheets.

  They met halfway across the room.

  He’d tossed his briefcase aside and was loosening his tie when she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him long and slow . . . with lots of tongue. His aftershave smelled like an advertisement for money and sex. Part of her enthusiasm was intentional. She felt guilty, and she wanted him in a good mood to hear her news. “Welcome home,” she whispered.

  He ran his hands down her back until he cupped her ass, pulling her into the cradle of his thighs. “I’ve missed you, baby,” he muttered.

  Her dislike for that particular endearment threatened to derail her mood, but she pushed the thought aside. Her grandmother had always told her she was too picky.

  When Marc bit into the side of her neck, she lost all interest in mental reflection. Her knees weakened, and moisture bloomed between her thighs. “Marc, Marc, Marc.” She whispered his name as the sweet ache spread throughout her body.

  He removed her clothes gently, almost reverently, all the while touching and licking and sucking and making her mad with desire. She grabbed for his belt buckle, but he batted her hands away. He was fond of controlling the sexual agenda, and frankly, given the stellar results, she had no reason to complain.

  Before she could stop him, he had her wrist in a tight grip and was dragging her toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She was nude except for her lacy bra and panties. He propelled her forward firmly until she made contact, face-first, with the cool glass.

  Nola yelped, more in surprise than anything else. He lifted her arms over her head. “Brace your hands against the window.”

  She obeyed blindly, conditioned by the past several months to receive searing pleasure in exchange for her cooperation. Behind her, she heard him getting undressed.

  Moments later, his thighs brushed the backs of hers. His body heat made her shiver. She felt his touch at her spin
e as he unfastened her bra. He took her hands one at a time and lifted them from the glass long enough to remove the gossamer garment.

  Then she felt his caress at her hips. He took her panties down her legs in pulse-pounding increments, stopping to lick her ass, the backs of her knees, her feet. She trembled uncontrollably now, clenching her thighs, trying in vain to brace herself against the onslaught to come.

  He helped her step out of the remaining piece of lingerie and then he stood up. He nuzzled her cheek. She felt his erection nudging her ass. His voice was harsh. “Tell me how you feel.”

  She swallowed hard. “Exposed.” The whispered word was shaky. “Someone could see me, Marc.” There was no other tall building between them and the water, but still, spread naked against the window, she felt uneasy. The unspoken plea in her voice went unanswered.

  “Let them,” he muttered, rubbing his cock in the crevice between her butt cheeks. “I want all of Chicago to see my prize.”

  Again, his phrasing left her feeling slightly ill at ease, but when he reached between her legs from behind and stroked her damp sex, she shuddered and moaned. He probed her clit, thrust two fingers into her wetness, tested her swollen flesh.

  Every knowing touch of his hand against her body sent her spiraling higher. “Let’s move to the sofa,” she begged, breathing raggedly, her face hot, her limbs trembling.

  He pinched the inside of her thigh. He was kneeling now, his shoulder wedged between her legs. “You’ll do whatever I tell you to do,” he said bluntly. “Because you want it too badly to make me stop.”

  She knew it was true. And on some level she was ashamed. She was using him for sexual satisfaction. Not that he minded, but still. At odd moments she found herself imagining that she might be the one woman to tame him. But then reality intruded, and she knew better than to rationalize her behavior.

  This was sex, nothing more.

  He maneuvered again, now with his back to the glass and his butt on the floor. He pushed her away from him a few inches and began to lick her sex. She dropped her hands, and he bit softly at her labia. “Put them back up on the glass. Now.”

  The barked order slid into her psyche and aroused her even as she was shocked by her own behavior.

  Her arms ached, her thighs quivered, and her spine tightened as he ran his tongue over her clitoris in languid sweeps.

  The orgasm bore down on her, beckoning with sweet temptation. Let go. Give in. Let him do whatever he will.

  In the end, she lost the battle. She climaxed with a gasp, clamping her thighs against his head and groaning as hot, delicious release coursed through her veins.

  Before the last ripple faded, he lowered her to the soft carpet, rolled on a condom, and lifted her legs onto his shoulders. When he entered her forcefully, she came again. Over and over he slammed into her, the angle keeping his thrusts deep and hard.

  He came with a roar and a curse, gripping her with bruising strength, his face a contorted mask of lust. The denouement seemed to last forever, and every pulse of his flesh against hers skated close to the edge of too much, too long, too raw and painful.

  When it was over, she lay dazed beneath him, his body a deadweight on hers. The room smelled of sex, her perfume, and his cologne. Sweat dried on their skin in the chill of the air-conditioning.

  From the foyer she could hear the steady ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

  At last he moved. He raised his head, his eyes an icy blue that might have seemed sinister were it not for the constant look of amusement on his face. He scrubbed a hand across his forehead. “You’re a natural, Nola. How about I lock you in my bedroom and keep you for a sexual plaything?”

  She shoved him to the side so she could breathe. Her body was still tingling, and oxygen seemed in short supply. “You’d be bored in a month,” she muttered, stretching. “But thanks for the offer.”

  They cleaned up in his opulent bathroom, showering together and discussing his day. What she had learned of his work since they’d been dating fascinated her. It was very intense, and she knew he was good at it. He liked to win. In every situation.

  But he rarely evinced any interest in her work. Which bothered her at times. And simply reinforced the fact that he wasn’t what she was looking for in a husband. Even the sex was one-sided when it came to give and take. Marc had taught her a lot, true . . . but every now and then it would be fun to be the one calling the shots.

  Her cheeks heated as she recalled a few carnal moments in this very room. Marc liked to explore every option when it came to sex. From the conventional, to the clichéd, to the outrageous, he enjoyed dragging Nola kicking and screaming out of her good-little-girl rut into the ranks of the erotically sophisticated.

  She put a hand to her stomach and realized her breathing had become choppy. Marc was in turns fascinating and alarming. He was widely known in Chicago, both for his business acumen and because of his penchant for seducing women and giving them the time of their lives.

  When you were Marc Overmyer’s woman, you were wined, dined, fucked, and (last but not least) rewarded with diamonds, trips abroad, and his focused attention . . . until he moved on. He’d been paired with some of the most exciting, high-profile women in the city—which meant that Nola was understandably flattered when he singled her out at a party and proceeded to charm the pants off her, literally.

  Tally had cajoled her into attending. Nola’s friend often snagged fun invitations in the course of her work at one of the local television stations, and since Tally wasn’t dating anyone at the moment, she had begged Nola to go with her to the sophisticated charity event. Nola felt out of place, but the effervescent Tally had introduced her introvert friend to at least a half dozen single men.

  By the time the evening wound down, and in a far more private location, Nola’s black silk evening trousers lay in a soft puddle beside Marc’s bed, and her matching stilettos were digging into his back.

  She might not have extensive sexual experience, but she knew the score. Marc’s relationships had a beginning and an end. So Nola planned to protect her emotions and enjoy the ride for as long as it lasted.

  The money and the attention were fun, but the best part about their relationship was her chance to learn from a pro. Marc was a man who understood sex. In twelve short weeks he’d made her believe that she was a goddess in the bedroom. He’d shown her positions and sensations she’d never have believed possible. While other men were devouring Sports Illustrated and Field & Stream, Marc spent his time memorizing the Kama Sutra.

  And when it came to “hands-on” experience, Marc Overmyer was the king of the G-spot, the extended orgasm, and the satisfied partner.

  But he wasn’t marriage material. Aside from the fact that he preferred the variety pack when it came to the female sex, he and Nola had virtually nothing in common.

  She made a decent living as a photographer. And she enjoyed her work, even if it had been a struggle to get established. But she was firmly middle-class, and her rural upbringing gave her a worldview that didn’t include spending vast amounts of money at the drop of a hat. Even if, like Marc, you could afford it.

  To be fair, she had seen him write a five-figure check to charity without blinking. But his carelessly spendthrift ways made her cringe.

  By the time they were dry and dressed, Nola’s stomach was growling. Marc had already stepped into the other room, and she heard him speaking on the telephone.

  She joined him and frowned slightly. “I told you I’d be happy to cook for us tonight.”

  His tone was flippant. “I want you to conserve your energy, Nola.”

  She was expecting pizza or Chinese, but she should have known better. The doorbell rang almost immediately, and she realized that Marc must have set this up in advance, the doorman on stand-by for a signal to deliver the meal.

  After waiting impatiently for the uniform-clad young man to set the various servers on the dining room table, Marc dismissed him with a hefty tip and began removing th
e silver covers himself.

  Nola stared. “Good Lord, Marc. This is way over the top. Where on earth did it all come from?”

  He leaned down to inhale the aroma of fresh beef. “My favorite five-star steakhouse in Dallas.”

  Nola surveyed the bounty . . . filet mignon, baby asparagus, baked squash topped with blue cheese. . . . It was amazing. She wrapped her arms around her waist, disturbed and uncertain how to express that to him. “It must be nice to be able to pick up the phone and ask for anything you want, any time of the day.”

  He lifted his head and faced her, his eyes cool. “I refuse to feel guilty about spending my own money. It’s not a crime.”

  He had a point. Maybe she was making too much out of nothing. Marc was spoiled. But his undeniable charm sufficed to make his sense of entitlement amusing rather than disgusting.

  After dessert they cozied up on the sofa together, his head in her lap. She ruffled her fingers through his short, silky hair, searching for a way to broach her difficult news. In the end, she simply blurted it out, just as the lawyer had. Unvarnished, matter-of-fact details.

  Marc went still for long moments before he sat up abruptly and faced her. His expression was hard to read. “What will you do?” He watched her intently, making her even more nervous.

  She shrugged unhappily. “I’m going to Resnick to get started on the residency requirement.”

  He clenched and unclenched his fist, a nervous habit she’d come to associate with him. “And your work?”

  She picked at the fringe on his pale gold cashmere throw. “It will take some juggling. I’m arranging for other photographers to cover my upcoming schedule, what there is of it. But to be honest, with the economy so iffy, I’ve been struggling to keep up with the bills lately. Having a professional portrait made is a luxury for most people.”

  Marc’s silence was laden with disapproval.

  She sighed. “Sometimes things happen for a reason. I’ve always wanted to do more artistic photography. Maybe this is my chance. I don’t want to make any permanent decisions . . . not yet. Tally is going to sublet my apartment. After that, I’ll play it by ear, I guess.”