suggestive purr. “Are you cured?”
April chuckled. “No and no. I’m supposed to meet him at his house at seven.” Goose bumps erupted on her skin at the mere thought. To think that after all this time she was only hours away from a guaranteed orgasm. It almost made her light-headed.
“Oooh. So he’s taking you to his lair, his den of iniquity, allowing you into the inter sanctum. Very, very interesting,” she said, doing a comical Einstein impression. “I figured a house call would be more in keeping with his style.”
April would have, too, come to think of it. She couldn’t be certain of course, but from everything she’d heard, Ben customarily guarded his personal space. He’d happily share another woman’s bed, but if one had managed to actually share his, April had never caught wind of it.
“Or multiple house calls,” Frankie continued. A wicked laugh bubbled up her throat. “What do you wanna bet that he prescribes more than one treatment?”
Would that she would be so lucky, April thought. After a year and a half with no conclusive action, she was due for more than one treatment, thank you very much.
“So tell me everything,” her friend finally demanded. “What was he wearing?”
April laughed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ll see,” she said. “Indulge me.”
“Er…Okay. Let’s see.” April paused, easily pulling Ben’s image to the forefront of her mind. He was never very far away anyway. “He was wearing a dark almond handwoven wool sweater and a pair of khaki slacks.” Both of which had looked fantastic on him. Very European. Very hot. The sweater had draped over those broad shoulders and muscled pecs, competently displaying the beautiful manly shape underneath.
“Any jewelry?”
“Aside from a designer watch—a TAG Heuer, I think—none that I could see.”
“Looking that closely at him, eh?” Frankie said knowingly.
Aha, April thought, letting go a quiet laugh. She had been looking closely, evidently even more closely than she’d realized. But then again, Ben was hard not to look at.
Aside from being remarkably handsome—flawless bone structure, angular jaw, hollow cheeks, heavy-lidded soulful eyes and a slightly imperfect nose to add character—Ben had that whole mysterious dark thing going on. He could have easily stepped onto any gothic movie set and played the part of a sexy vampire or elusive shape-shifter…and she could just as easily see herself playing the role of his devoted familiar. He was…magnetic, April decided. God knows she’d always been drawn to him. Ben had that “It” quality, that certain charisma that put him leagues above the average guy.
“Well, now that Operation Orgasm is underway, would you like me to tell you about some good news I heard this morning?” Frankie asked.
Operation Orgasm? She’d named it? Sheesh. April shook her head. “Sure. What’s up?”
“Carrie got a call from the producers of Let’s Cook, New Orleans! this morning.”
April squealed as a bolt of glee shot through her. “Oh, you’re kidding!”
“I’m not,” Frankie assured her, laughing herself. “She’s meeting them next week. And she’s a nervous wreck.”
April guessed so. It wasn’t every day that a person interviewed for their own television show. But with Carrie’s looks—she had the face of an angel, the soul of a saint—which had been a plus considering she’d had to have the patience of one to work for that nitpicking bastard Martin, April thought—and a body that put every man who looked at her in the mood for sin. Between her good looks and incredible talent, the network would be foolish not to hire her.
Furthermore, Carrie needed the break. Chicks In Charge had given her an outlet of sorts, but the perpetual grind of working at a thankless job was beginning to wear on her. She’d worked hard for this, dammit. She deserved it.
“God, I hope this works out for her,” April told her.
Frankie sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. I’ve got a call coming in,” she said. “Keep me posted. I want details—the hot, the heaving and the horny. Call me as soon as you get home. Provided you come home,” she added.
“Duly noted.” With a soft chuckle, April disconnected, then made her way back to her home office. That was one of the benefits of her line of work.
Aside from the necessary legwork she liked to put into a project, ninety percent of her job was accomplished in the small gatehouse located at the rear of her property. She’d fallen in love with the main house, a stately Victorian in the Garden District, the instant she’d seen it. Between the money she’d managed to save and the trust fund she’d inherited at twenty-one, April had managed to pay cash in order to avoid a mortgage.
Her father’s accountant had counseled against the move, had cited numerous investments she could have made in order to make the most of her money, but buying the house—owning her own place without fear of ever losing it—had been too important to her. If she never heard, “So long as you’re living in my house…” or “My house, my rules,” again, she’d die a happy woman. Frankly, she’d always hated living with her mother and from the time she was a little girl, she’d wanted her own place. Something that was solely hers.
Thankfully, in recent years her business had done well and thanks to the popularity of Chicks In Charge, she currently had more work that she could handle alone. She’d hired a couple of capable women from her local CHiC chapter to help out part-time. Aside from her estranged relationship with her father and the lengthy absence of an orgasm, her life was going remarkably well.
She was doing all she could do in regards to her father. When he was ready to share this new chapter of his life with her, he would. Did it hurt? Hell yeah. But apart from trying to maintain a presence in his life, what could she do?
Frankie had suggested hiring a private detective. For a few hundred dollars she could identify the significant someone in her father’s life, but April couldn’t bring herself to do it. It smacked too much of what her mother would do, and April purposely avoided any reason for comparison.
Undoubtedly her mother knew who her father was seeing—precious little escaped her ever-observant eye and if it did, her private detective kept her abreast of goings-on—but something about her mother’s smug smile when the subject came up indicated to April that, for whatever reason, Morgana would take entirely too much glee in sharing her father’s secret. And evidently, the only thing she’d enjoy more was her dad telling her himself.
But clearly her father didn’t want her to know, and finding out by any other means seemed entirely too sneaky. She preferred the direct approach.
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. As evidenced by this morning’s behavior. Hi, Ben. My orgasm is broken and I need you to fix it for me. Not verbatim, of course, but the meaning couldn’t have been any more clear. Odd how their familiarity had both terrified and liberated her. Ben knew her, which had been both a pro and a con.
On the pro side, he knew what to expect from her. He knew that she didn’t pull any punches, that she abhorred all methods of manipulation. That had given her the freedom to walk into his office and lay everything out on the line.
Then
