Page 2 of Role Play

A who’s who of the genre follows, prompting a surge of pride inside me. McGee Whitney Books publishes five of them—five. And I can’t deny a little spike of pleasure when I see Agnes Millicent’s name isn’t on the list. I don’t wish her ill—I’m not that kind of person—but the way she went public with what was a very trivial email mishap was far from professional. Besides, who has time for sex-negative people? Not this editor, that’s for sure.

And especially not tonight as I head into the hotel bar. In the corner, a man croons a song about luck being a lady. Luck sure is, and her name is Blanche. Because tonight, I plan to get lucky.

I settle onto a stool at the bar next to a couple who stare at each other with naughty thoughts in their eyes, as if they’re imagining stripping, touching, fucking each other right here in this room.

I want someone to look at me like that.

When I catch the bartender’s attention to order a drink, he mouths be there in a few before turning to a gaggle of women at the other end of the bar. I use the time to survey the room—the gentle hum of conversation and the golden glow of intimate lighting send a thrum of anticipation through me.

In one corner is a group of guys, talking and laughing too loudly, but none of them pique my interest. There’s nothing wrong with any of them—but there’s nothing right either.

There’s a man sitting by himself, nursing a beer. His eyes lift, catch mine, and he gives me a timid wave, but his wedding ring glints in the light as he does, and I quickly look away. No, thank you.

I conduct one final sweep of the room, attempt one last search for Mister Right Now—and then my pulse stutters. Stops. Beats double time.

A man in a three-piece suit walks into the bar. But even though that sounds like the start of a joke, I’m far from laughing.

The suit frames his body like it was made for him, highlighting the broad sweep of his shoulders then narrowing in at his torso. As he turns the other way, perhaps searching for someone, I catch a glimpse of his ass in those pants, and dear God, it’s round, and it’s firm, and it’s entirely too tempting. His body could belong to a superhero. He could be a superhero—this is LA, after all. Maybe he’s a stunt double for a movie star.

As he turns back to the bar, his dark brown eyes connect with mine, and for a beat I’m tempted to look away, search my clutch for something unimportant, but I don’t. I’m a woman alone at a bar in a city far from home, and the man of my fantasies has just walked in. It’s time to do what I read about in the latest Virgin Club column. Embrace mystery.

He doesn’t turn away either. His eyes travel up and down my body in a shameless display of appreciation, and when he strides toward me with a determined gait, butterflies loop in my stomach. He’s both the hero I deserve and the one I need right now.

“You’re from out of town,” he says in a deep, gravelly voice.

“What gave it away?” I cross one leg over the other, letting my dress fall to one side courtesy of the split that runs the length of my thigh.

His eyes track the movement. “If someone as beautiful as you came here often, I’d know about it.”

“Smooth.” I nod. “And you’re right. I’m here from out of town for work. But how many women have you used that line on?”

“You want to know a secret?” he asks.

I nod and lean closer, take a hit of the enticing scent of whiskey and cologne that lingers around his throat.

“I’ve only ever used it on you.”

A shiver coasts down my spine. My mouth runs dry, and where is that bartender when you need him?

“This doesn’t happen to me often,” he adds. He glances down at his shoes, then back up to meet my gaze. “I’m not the kind of guy who hits on women in bars. But ever since I walked in . . .” He gives a playful shrug. “Do you believe in fate?”

“I work in publishing,” I reply. “Our industry revolves around meant-to-bes and happily-ever-afters.”

“I could make you happy,” he says in a deliciously dirty tone. “I could make you very happy indeed.”

I swallow, and say, “Pretty words aren’t enough to get in my panties.”

“Dare I ask what a man has to do?”

“You could start by buying me a drink,” I reply, and within seconds, he’s waved down the bartender and ordered for us both.

“My hero,” I say, fanning my chest. “I’ve been trying to get a drink since I sat down.”

“I bet you’ve been thirsty,” he says, his eyes locked to my lips.

“Parched,” I reply, licking them slowly. I take a deep breath, surprised by how this is affecting me—by how turned on I am by this sexy conversation with a stranger.

Seems mystery really is an aphrodisiac.

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