style="font-size:15px;"> “Dolly Parton’s okay,” he went on, “but you’re more my style—sleek and firm.”
The intimate remark embarrassed her, though it was nice to know he approved of her body. She cleared her throat and started to speak, but he continued in a low, matter-of-fact voice.
“Yep,” he said, “you’re just right. Not too firm, soft enough to mold to a man’s hand. And I bet you’re responsive. It would probably only take a couple of flicks from my thumb.”
The room grew very warm. Her shirt felt tight, her breasts heavy. He stood too close, yet he was careful not to touch her. Talia swallowed hard. “You should—”
“I imagine you taste sweet, like honey or cream.” He kept on as if she hadn’t spoken.
His words paralyzed her vocal cords. She knew she should be appalled, but she was oddly mesmerized by his fantasies. The sub shop faded away as the picture of him with his mouth on her breast formed in her mind. She bit back a moan as her nipples pushed against the cotton of her shirt.
“I’d want to feel you against my chest,” he whispered. “You know, there’s something about a woman’s soft naked breasts rubbing against a man’s hard, bare chest that drives a man crazy.”
Images raced on through her mind like a movie, each more erotic than the last. Trace’s muscular chest, her pouting breasts, rubbing, caressing each other. Though she’d never seen his chest before, she could feel it in her hands, hard and muscular with crinkly hair. Her breath came in short spurts. Her knees turned to liquid.
He leaned toward her, his eyes intent on her face. She could feel his arousal, but it brought her no comfort to know his verbal torture had done him in too. He’d drummed up a fever within her, and all her secret places throbbed with life. In some distant, coherent corner of her mind she knew she should push him away.
His chest grazed her aching breasts. She didn’t bother to withhold the moan this time. “Talia, haven’t you heard that more than a mouth—”
“Stop,” she choked out, and covered his mouth with her hand. Shaking her head, she whispered, “We’re in the middle of a deli. For Pete’s sake, what do you want from me?”
He considered that. “We don’t have time for me to answer that question completely.” He took hold of her hand and kissed it. “Besides, you’re not ready. And I never rush.”
He dropped her singed hand and stepped away. “I’ve already had lunch. I dropped by to tell you we won’t be meeting with the country club members on Saturday night.”
Talia felt as though he were changing her gears without using the clutch. She tried desperately to keep up. The country club. He’d said something about the country club.
“Saturday night?” she asked.
“Yes.” He seemed pleased with her bemusement. “I had to change it to next Saturday, since I have to go out of town. Is next week okay with you?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps one of the other committee members might—”
“Come on, Talia, we’ve been through this before. No one else will do it.”
Totally confused by his nonchalant attitude, she turned away from him and began slicing sub rolls with short, jerky movements. “Well, maybe I don’t want to go. Maybe I don’t trust you after the way you, you…” She broke off in frustration.
“After I what?” he asked far too innocently.
She counted to ten. She was hot: angry-hot and aroused-hot. “After the way you talked to me.”
“Did I say something threatening? Was I insulting?” He sidled close to her again, and she felt the space around her shrink. “I was just telling the truth. You can’t fault a man for that. As a matter of fact, you have all the more reason to trust me if I tell the truth.”
Her head started to pound. “Are you sure you’re not a lawyer?”
He smiled sympathetically. “I have a law degree, but I’m not practicing now that I’m CEO.”
Not practicing? she repeated silently. You could have fooled me. She wanted him out of her shop so she could regain her equilibrium. Giving in now seemed the lesser of two evils. “What time next Saturday night?”
“Same time. Six o’clock in the lounge. We’ll be having dinner with the two Misses Fitzgerald.”
She nodded. “I’ll be there.” She turned to watch as he strode to the door.
Just before he left, he said, “By the way, you’ve got a great logo.”
Talia spent the better part of the next week wondering what had possessed her to allow Trace to speak to her in such an intimate manner. For that matter, what had possessed him to speak to her that way? When her mind could provide no suitable answer, she threw her arms up in frustration and vowed to think of anything but Trace Barringer.
If her heart raced at the thought of him, she ignored it. If the image of his heated gaze taunted her day and night, she pushed it aside. But in her deepest, darkest fantasies, she remembered his graphic analysis of her breasts and paid him back in spades.
During a day trip to Richmond, she splurged on a new dress and French perfume. She chose a soft white frock with a shawl collar and V-neck. It skimmed over her slim curves with womanly appeal down to a knee-length pleated hem that flirted against her long legs.
When she asked the saleswoman the translation for the name of the perfume, the older woman got a naughty gleam in her eye. She drew out the three-syllable word with a flourish. “Ecstasy.”
Dismayed, Talia was thankful her natural tan concealed blushes. Otherwise, her cheeks would have been flaming red. She consoled herself with the knowledge that she could keep that information to herself. Besides, she preferred to smell like something besides salami and meatballs.
Before she felt sufficiently prepared for enduring a dinner with Trace at the country club, it was Saturday evening. Her new clothes did give her a measure of confidence, and the perfume made her feel sensual and feminine. Still, when she pictured the two women she was supposed to meet that night, her stomach fluttered with nervousness.
Talia envisioned a pair of eagle-eyed society matrons who would assess every thread of her clothing, every piece of faux jewelry and every hair on her head. In an act of defiance, she wore her hair down.
She’d chewed off her rose lipstick for the second time when the phone rang. Her stomach fluttered again. Could it be Trace?
“Hey, Little Italy,” a man said when she answered. “How’s life in the fast lane?”
Talia smiled. That nickname had been a source of torment throughout her elementary school years. The only person she allowed to call her that was Kevin. “You’re walking on thin ice, baby brother. You know how I feel about my name. Since exam week is coming up soon, I’ll assume your anxieties have rendered you temporarily insane. I’ll excuse you this time. And I’ve noticed you only call me Italia when you’re more than an arm’s reach away.”
Kevin laughed. “Yeah, well, I like my face the way it is.”
