Lady Be Bad (24 page)

He took temporary possession of the fur coat,
holding the bulk of the weight as Vikki’s arms slid into the
red-silk-lined sleeves. His hands brought the wide collar up around
her face. “Goodness, you and this mink make a stunning pair.”

Cosmetic wizardry turned ice-blue eyes into
exotic slits that formed the now famous vixen glance.
“
Goodness
had little to do with it!” Her tart, coquettish
voice turned serious against his laughter. “Although, I wouldn’t
have done the ad or taken the coat without prior assurance that
these animals were bred for consumer use.”

Jerry gave an understanding nod. “Vikki
needed the assurance; Vixen would have preferred the minks be on
the endangered species list.”

With a masculine hand pressed against the
small of her back, Vikki wended her way through the occupied
tables. She courteously tried to avoid dragging the sumptuous fur
against any of the seated diners. Her successful exit was
dramatically halted when a rude, bulging-veined hand sank into the
soft, thick lustrous mink.

“Look, Harriet! See! I told you it was
her!
” Fingers still gripping the fur hem, a short, rather
barrel-figured woman stood up. “It is
you
, isn’t it?”

With a mixture of surprise and fear, Vikki
viewed a freckled face framed by excessively short brassy blond
hair. She tried to free the coat and, failing, stepped back against
Jerry’s protective bulk. “Excuse me. I – I –“

“Don’t deny it!” The nasal voice grew louder,
much to the delight of the interested bystanders. “I know you and
your husband and your lover.” Prying eyes inspected Jerry, noticing
his wedding band. Her tone grew triumphant. “Is this your next
victim, you scheming hussy? How could you ruin so many lives
without even a thought?” A warning finger was pushed into Vikki’s
face. “You can’t keep getting away with this! That wonderful
Reverend Patrick Malone knows what you did to your last husband.
He’s not going to let you get away with murdering anyone else.”

“Betty’s right,” added the woman named
Harriet, her voice tight as the gray curls that framed an angular
face. Brown eyes stared into Vikki’s stupefied expression. “You are
evil! I know what you’re trying to do to your sweet sister-in-law,
that trusting angel of a girl. You’re trying to drive her insane.
She’s so confused.” The words caught in her throat, she sniffed and
wiped her nose against her napkin. “Betty, let go of that coat. No
telling where it’s been.” A shudder twitched thin shoulders.

Jerry’s whispered “Careful, Vixen” vibrated
in Vikki’s ear. Ten elegant fingers moved up the wide lapels on the
mink to adjust the shawl collar. “My sister-in-law is a simpering
wimp,” came her throaty response. “Beth has difficulty putting a
straight part in that Alice-in-Wonderland blond hair of hers. I’m
trying to help the girl, point out her weaknesses.”

Her seductive voice continued. “And wonderful
Reverend Malone?” Vikki’s face turned slightly to the left, chin
tipped downward, dark lashes narrowed over clear blue eyes. “I
don’t suppose you notice how the good Reverend enjoys more than his
share of the afternoon sherry. And isn’t he the eavesdropper?” The
two women exchanged meaningful glances. “I’ll tell you what else
the food Reverend enjoys.” Vikki leaned close to the woman’s ear
and whispered.

“Black lace
what
?” Betty gasped,
released her hold on the fur, and fell back into her chair.

“What? What!” The words squeaked from
Harriet’s throat as she watched Betty fan herself with her
hand.

Betty’s strangled tone rose above her
companion’s. “Wh – when?” She demanded from Vikki.

“Tomorrow.”

“We’ll cancel those tickets to that Broadway
show,” she told Harriet. “We’ll call all the girls back home. You
won’t believe what she just told me!” Betty gave Vikki her sweetest
smile. “All thirty-two members of our garden club watch you every
day. Could you please autograph…” her stubby fingers rummaged
through her purse “…this?”

“Your parking voucher?”

“No…oh, dear, they’ll want that, won’t they?
Harriet!”

“Here, Miss Mallory.” The other, less
flustered woman supplied a hastily ripped sheet of paper. “Just say
something wonderfully wicked to Harriet and Betty from
Schenectady.”

Using Jerry’s felt-tipped pen, Vikki signed
the requested note with unprecedented flourish. “How’s that,
ladies?”

Harriet made a quick grab, read the
inscription, and, smiling passed it to her companion. “I just love
your clothes. Where did you get that tiny red and black sheer teddy
you had on yesterday? Wouldn’t Gordon just love me in that,
Betty?”

Jerry supplied the answer. “Saks Fifth
Avenue.” He gently pushed Vikki toward the glass-etched front door.
“They’re setting up a Vixen lingerie display there tomorrow. All in
scarlet and black of course.” The two women oohed and aahed over
that information, then went on to discuss the possibility that
wonderful Reverend Malone was only posing as a minister.

“You were brilliant.” The PR man gave Vikki a
complementary hug.

“A Vixen lingerie display?” she inquired once
they were on the snow-edged sidewalk. “Now that’s
spur-of-the-moment brilliance!”

Jerry whistled for a cab. “I spoke the
truth,” he protested with studied innocence. “Just another one of
my genius suggestions. Since Saks is providing part of the wardrobe
on the show, they jumped at the tie-in.” He frowned at the bustling
traffic. “Why don’t you try hailing the cab?”

Her melodic laugher formed wispy puffs in the
dry frigid air. “You think Vixen will have better luck?” Vikki
shook her head. “New York cabbies are immune. They’re use to
celebrities. I waited over ten minutes just trying to get one to
take me here.”

Stepping off the curb and well into the
street, Jerry called back. “Look at the way those two women
reacted. The fans want Vixen.” Two more sharp whistles pierced the
air, but the cabs continued whizzing past. “Come on, Miss Mallory,
give it a try.”

Lifting her face from the mink’s protection,
she moved to Jerry’s side and extended one black-leather-gloved
hand in a regal, imperious gesture. Within seconds, a cab came
speeding to a halt. Vikki was impressed. “If the fans want Vixen –“
she yanked open the car door “— then Vixen they will get!” Her
good-natured wink said it all!

An excerpt from
Designing Woman
available now!

“I don't understand you,” Griffen ground out
through clenched teeth. “You seem perfectly normal.” He picked up a
meat fork, jabbed at the platter and slammed food onto his dish.
“Maybe you need professional help.”

Brandy smiled at him, her tone one of
patient forbearance. “Actually I'm a product of my environment.”
She picked up a rolled linen napkin containing silverware, moved
out of line and headed toward a private table in the corner of the
large dining room.

Her emotions ranged from deadly calm to
seething turmoil. No matter what she said or what she did, that
insufferable man would see only what he wanted. And he so wanted a
nymphomaniac!

“What the hell do you mean, you're a product
of your environment?” Griffen slid into the chair next to her. “For
the last four weeks your environment has been filled with hard
work. If anything, you should be too exhausted to even think of
entertaining a male hooker like Pierre.”

Brandy exhaled an airy, musical sigh. “What
you have to realize, Griffen, is that my whole world revolves
around sensuality.” Her long fingers stroked the slender column of
throat down to the low V of her neckline. “Interior design and
architecture are very erotic occupations.” She picked up a carrot
stick, studied it for a moment, then placed it in her mouth, her
teeth snapped off the end. “Phallic symbols abound – look at the
skyscrapers, chimneys, pole lamps, and don't forget all those groin
vaults.”

A lazy smile curved her lips, she watched
his skin turn gray beneath his tan. “And, Griffen, what about
geodesic domes?” She reached for a Spanish olive. Her tongue
circled its green skin several times before poking out the red
pimiento. “They are very mammary-oriented in their design.”

Brandy leaned forward, staring intently into
his glazed eyes. “Now tell me the truth, Griffen --” her finger
zigzagged along the curve of his cheekbone to the edge of his
tight, compressed mouth “ – don't you lust in your heart every time
you drive through a tunnel?

“Erotic symbolism is everywhere.” Brandy
studied his tray, then picked up her fork. “Just look at your
lunch.” She neatened the blob of cottage cheese on his dish and
centered the cherry. “And doesn't that sausage look right at home
snuggled between those two halves of baked potato.

“Griffen.” Her voice was low and infinitely
inviting. “Women have needs and those needs have to be answered. I
would have never had to put in that call to Pierre if you hadn't
been so stingy.”

Enjoy an excerpt from
Special
Delivery available on an eBook near you

“You
think
you know me,” she
interrupted, “but you don’t.”

“Really?” Bram considered her statement for
a moment. “You mean your reaction last night was not unusual? That
you readily melt against just
any
man? Come alive like that
when just
any
man holds you and touches you? Make those
adorable little mewing sounds when just
any
man kisses and
caresses your gorgeous body?”

“No, I do not!” Viewing his grinning face,
she hastily corrected herself. “You misunderstood my point.”

“That is the point,” he countered. “I did
not misunderstand. I understand you all too well and your reaction
to me is directly related to the brainwashing by your aunt.”

Roxanne suppressed the urge to scream.
Instead, she drew a card. “This is the eminent psychiatrist talking
now, is it?”

“Aunt Mathilda is a formidable obstacle to
overcome, but I’m just the man to do it.” He scooped up her
discard. “I told you this before, but I don’t remind repeating it.
I love you. I intend to make love to you before the New Year
dawns.”

“That sounds more like a threat than an
endearment,” she pointed out ruthlessly. “Is that the Tyler method?
Threatening women into submission?”

“Women usually threaten me into submission,”
Bram chided her. “You just don’t realize what a wonderful man
you’ve lucked into. But you will.”

“I love me, whom do you love?” came her
sarcastic jeer.

“I love you,” he returned easily, again
claiming another discarded club. “Considering the fact Mathilda had
you under her concrete thumb for – what was it? – ten years, you
turned out pretty well.”

Roxanne had to laugh. “Gee, thanks.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” She struggled to swallow
another laugh.

“It couldn’t have been easy being a
nurse-companion to a crabby spinster, puckered on both ends, who
was soured on love and cursed life in general.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that your considered
opinion of Aunt Mathilda?”

Bram’s dark head made a modest bow. “Spare
me the compliments. I pegged the old biddy perfectly, didn’t I?”
Without waiting for Roxanne to agree, he continued. “Mathilda’s
specter haunts you. You’re afraid to let yourself go, let yourself
feel, let yourself love.”

“Whom do you want me to go, feel, and love?”
she inquired, tossing out another club.

“Me of course.” His blue gaze leveled a
peremptory challenge. “Only me. Tut, tut, you’re getting careless.”
He reached for the card. “I realize it’s going to take constant
tutelage on my part to exorcise Mathilda’s fiendish control.”

“That’s so wonderful of you. So selfless and
generous.” Roxanne took his discarded spade and deftly laid down a
perfect rummy meld. “Gin.”

Bram muttered an expletive. “I know what the
problem is. I know why I’m losing.”

She added another mountain of points to her
score before reassembling the cards. “What’s your excuse this
time?” Roxanne shuffled, waited for Bram to cut and began to
deal.

“Not enough incentive.”

“I’m perfectly willing to raise the limit to
a dollar a point. You’ve already funded my IRA for this year; I can
let you start on my Keogh.”

“Money was not the incentive I was talking
about.” He smiled with approval at his hand and began to adjust his
cards according to suits.

Roxanne stared at him with growing
suspicion. “What
is
your idea of the right incentive?”

“Strip gin would be interesting.” He drew
the first card. “Of course, I know what your reaction would be and
I can hear Aunt Mathilda shrieking in horror, a lace hanky pressed
to her mouth while she hunts for smelling salts to ward off the
vapors.”

“Aunt Mathilda, vapors? Hmmm. Strip gin?”
Roxanne picked a card and slowly began to reorganize your hand. “I
really think it’s time I told you the truth about me and my family,
and especially, Aunt Mathilda.” Roxanne tutted Bram silent when he
tried to interrupt.

“Mathilda was born in New York City. She was
quite precocious. At fifteen she got her first job. Ever hear of
Minsky’s? Burlesque?” She fluttered her lashes and smiled. “Take
ten terrific girls and only nine costumes? Aunt Mathilda was the
tenth
girl.

“She’d adore playing strip gin, especially
is she could lose. And with all due respect to your
minor
in
psychiatry, I have no inhibitions at playing either.” One at a time
Roxanne displayed her cards on the table. “Gin.” Her fingers folded
together, her expression guileless. “I’ll take your shirt.”

Bram struggled to talk around a tongue that
swelled like a sponge. “This is…you are…you’re joking. Right?”

“About gin, Auntie, or taking your shirt?”
Roxanne shook her head. “Say” – her eyes narrowed – “not welching
on the bet, are you?”