can be as much of an emotional release as a physical one, and there are studies to back me up on that one, Doctor.” She added a second mark. “Think about it…Edward. Think about the last time you enjoyed that release…with another person, I mean.” She scrunched her nose at Astrid, at the thought of the pompous Doctor Craig indulging in that scenario. “Wasn’t it a wonderfully satisfying emotional surrender, as well as the obvious physical enjoyment?”
“It might have been, but this isn’t about me, Doctor,” he said, his voice so dark-chocolate it gave her goose bumps.
She glanced at her truffle. Never, ever until after Edward, but she wanted it so bad right now. “Isn’t it, Doctor?” she purred, claiming her third mark. “It’s about your ideas of right and wrong, which, like it or not, are affected by your life, your loves, your sexual experiences, and vice versa. My caller was hurt, she needed to vent, and yes, she needs to feel like she has some control in the matter. As a relationship counselor you know this, or you should. What I suggested, Eddie—a little revenge sex—gives her back some of that control. To me, that’s a pretty simple solution. You know what they say about two playing that game, and maybe when her husband finds out she’s been playing—and you know he’d never suspect she would, men never do—he might just rethink his playing if he wants that marriage to work out. If he doesn’t and he leaves, she’s better off without him.”
“Adultery, Doctor McCarthy, is never the solution. Not to any problem. It’s only a means to compound it.”
It was time to end this now. He was drifting off into levelheaded land, where it was hard to combat his real logic with Val sense. Meaning she had to cut him off before Edward succeeded in besting Valentine. That was not what her listeners wanted.
Roxy drew in a steadying breath, and looked to Astrid for her end-the-segment signal, but instead got the stretch sign, meaning she was going to have to roll this all the way to the next commercial break. “Adultery isn’t an issue for the husband, since he started it, Doctor, so don’t make it an issue for the wife, too.” She twisted toward Astrid, and gave her the slash-throat signal, but Astrid shook her head.’ Roxy shook her head emphatically, but Astrid countered with a nod to which Roxy mouthed the words, “You’re fired.” Astrid responded with a gesture Roxy knew was coming and turned away from before she saw it.
“I wouldn’t have to make it an issue for the wife, Doctor McCarthy, if you hadn’t given her license to go out and do what feels good simply as a way of getting back at her husband. But you did, and now…”
“And now nothing,” she countered. “It’s sex, Doctor Craig. Sex for the sake of getting even. Nooky for nooky, and that’s all it is, so don’t blow it out of proportion, okay?” A little over the top, she thought. Roxy had personal reactions. Val didn’t. Not ever. So, it was time to take a deep breath, refocus and bring Val back to the front of the line before Roxy went reactionary again and torpedoed the ratings.
“You know, Edward…” She whispered his name this time. Drew it out, turned it into husky need and silk sheets and promises. “It’s Friday…a little after midnight now. You should be in bed with someone…in bed and making mad, passionate love. You should be sweaty, and gasping for air, and on the verge of an orgasm so explosive you can literally feel the earth move. And afterwards, you should be sipping champagne in a bubble bath with her…I’m assuming it’s a her…and kissing her toes, feeling that familiar stirring down under the bubbles…the stirring that won’t let you make it all the way back to the bed this time. But you’re not. You’re on the phone debating sexual advice with a radio psychologist instead of indulging in some of those mighty fine pleasures yourself…pleasures I would certainly be indulging in if I weren’t working.” Yeah, right. Pleasures she hadn’t had since—she couldn’t remember when. “So I’m wondering, Doctor Edward Craig, why aren’t you?”
She shut her eyes, envisioning a wildly sexy Doctor Craig on her beach—she always envisioned him as wildly sexy—then jerked her eyes back open and glanced at Astrid, imploring her to end this thing. Which Astrid did with a slash gesture across her throat, laughing at the same time. Just in the nick of time, because that last image on the beach took deep root, wouldn’t go away even when her eyes were open.
“It’s not always about sex, Valentine,” Edward continued. “Sometimes it’s about making love. And that, my dear, is always the best sex, physically and emotionally. But we’ll save those fine distinctions for another night, if that’s okay with you.” With that, he clicked off.
The image of him on her beach still floating around in her head, Roxy grudgingly gave him a mark for that last remark. He deserved one every now and then. After all, Edward Craig translated into good rating points.
And good fantasies, when she let him. Very good fantasies.
“Be right back, sugars,” she said to her listeners. Then she grabbed the truffle, popped it into her mouth, and sank back into her chair to savor the taste.
2
Still Later, and Not a Creature Was Stirring, Except…
DRIP…DRIP…DRIP. Roxy shifted her stare from the computer screen, where she was designing the Rose Palace—her future home on the Sound—to the leaky kitchen faucet. An upright, with a nice, graceful, swan-curved neck and one handle. Drip! “Damn,” she muttered. She’d called that maintenance guy about it twice now. Begged him to come de-drip the durn thing. She’d been pretty blunt about how much it was annoying her, too, and how she really needed him over there as soon as possible. Which was yesterday, when it wasn’t even so much of an annoying drip as an occasional one.
So what if her call did have the dual purpose of drip-busting and getting an up-close and personal look at the man? Preferably from behind. Admittedly, she’d watched him a time or two. Or more. From the peephole in her door, from the elevator, in the lobby. He was the kind worth stopping and staring at. Gorgeous bod. Tight. She was betting six-pack abs under his T-shirt. A real appealing package in her 3D life—dull, dreary, dismal—even if all she got to do was look. Looking was good, though. Safe. Uninvolved. Easy.
Too bad she hadn’t taken that road the first time. But the appeal of a starving artist had seemed romantic at age twenty. Wore off fast, thank heavens. Funny how her working three jobs so that he could stare out the loft window and think about painting had a way of doing that.
So now she only looked. And Mr. Handyman was a looker well worth the effort. She was thanking her leaky swan-necked for choosing to slaver at that propitious moment, even if, so far, the plumbing Galahad had not come running to her watery rescue. All things considered, she thought she’d been pretty patient about waiting for him to haul his lethally fabulous butt through her front door to obliterate that damned dribble. But now it was getting ridiculous. The drip was running amuck and Roxy was actually more interested in a solution than the butt! Such a sad state of affairs. And pathetic.
Pathetic but true, Roxy. Admit it. Here it was, 3:30 a.m., and the damnable drippity-drip was so loud she just knew her snoopy neighbor on the other side of the wall would start banging out a Beethoven symphony. From day one in her apartment—was it only a month now?—he, she or whatever had pounded whenever Roxy sneezed, blinked, or when the light in her fridge came on. She did try hard to stay mouse quiet. Didn’t wear shoes, listened to music only through headphones, didn’t swing from the chandelier. The wee hours had always been good to her, and getting home at two-thirty every morning all wide-eyed and raring to do anything other than sleep furnished her with oodles of time to design her new house.
Until she moved in here. And Mr. Gorgeous Handyman cruising the hall in his drop-dead tool belt didn’t offset
