“A glass of wine, Ms. Davenport?” Elizabeth asked me, smiling so wide I thought her face would crack. “Champagne? Fresh orange juice, perhaps? They’ll have it down at the restaurant. Shall I go and get you some? It would be my pleasure.”
“Actually, Elizabeth, what I wanted—”
My words were cut short by a knock on the door. Argh! Of all the crappy timing for the masseuse to arrive.
Then the door swung open and Dylan Foreman walked in with a mile-wide, unapologetic grin.
“Wine would be good, Elizabeth,” I croaked.
Good? Wine would be necessary under the circumstances!
So this is the job he’d convinced the Bombay he was completely qualified for. It must have been a helluva sell-job he’d done for them to send him in to serve their newest VIP client. After all, I was Dixie Davenport, from Beverly Hills, wife of a Hollywood movie producer. Friend of Matt Damon’s! And though he’d been hired over the phone, I had every confidence his good looks upon presentation had landed him with me. Movie star caliber eye candy for the woman who rubbed shoulders with movie stars.
Why couldn’t I have thought of a more modest lie?
But even as I fumed about the situation (to wit, me lying naked on a table with my employee as my masseuse), I couldn’t help but be a little proud. I’d trained Dylan well. If Harvard had a PhD in massage, he’d claim to have the same, and be able to identify all the professors. He’d have read up on everything he could.
“Oh, you’re new,” Elizabeth said.
Well, duh!
Dylan crossed the room to shake her hand. “I just started here this morning. I’m Dylan Pulse.”
Pulse? That’s the pseudonym he came up with?
“Wonderful!” Elizabeth gushed. “We’ve been short staffed for months now. I’m Elizabeth Bee. Like, you know, the bug.”
Huh?
God, the girl was flustered.
I watched as she gave Dylan the once over. Then the twice over.
“Well,” Dylan flirted. “You’ve got to be the cutest bug I’ve ever seen.”
He was good; I’d give him that.
He looked good, too. The outfit for the male masseuses at the Bombay Spa was simple but classy — white t-shirts and crisp white twill pants. I’d known that from the brochures I’d looked through when I’d selected the day’s services in Redhead’s office. But apparently Dylan’s six foot four frame wasn’t what they were ready for. The t-shirt was about two sizes too small. The inch-high Bombay Spa logo (palm trees and happy coconuts) rode higher on his chest than I imagined it was supposed to, and the material hugged his abs like a second skin. And while I’m sure I’d noticed his biceps at one time or another, they’d never been displayed to quite such advantage before, the skin dark against the startling white of the t-shirt’s snug sleeves. As for the trousers … well, his narrow waist let him get into them, but I suspected the inseam wasn’t equal to his long legs. He’d obviously solved that problem by rolling them up almost to the knee, managing to look casually rugged while escaping the flood pants look.
If the Bombay Spa thought this was going to impress me….
Shit, how smart was that? They were going to be devastated when they discovered he wasn’t going to stay.
“Elizabeth? My wine?”
“Oh, sorry.” The girl dragged her attention away from Dylan, and in record time, she’d pulled a bottle of chilled Chardonnay from the mini-fridge, poured a glass and put it in my hands.
I tipped up my chin, completely conscious of my bare breasts against the table and lifted myself only enough to take a sip. An awkward sip. I had more of a slurp/drool thing happening.
“I think you’re all set,” Elizabeth said, “but I’ll be back in about an hour to check on things.”
“Wait!” Damnation! I couldn’t let her get away. I’d buttered her up, but I had yet to get the dirt on Jennifer Weatherby. “Couldn’t you hang around?”
She glanced at Dylan, then back to me, giving me a look that said, ‘What, are you nuts, lady?’
“I … I wanted to ask you some questions about the spa,” I said. “And if … Mr. Pulse was it?”
“Yes,” Dylan lied. “Dylan Pulse. As in heartbeat.”
Oh good grief!
“If Mr. Pulse is a new hire here, I doubt he could help me as well as you would be able to.”
Elizabeth brightened like I’d just slipped her another fifty. (And of course knowing I would). “I’d be pleased to. Just let me clear it with Ms. Pipps and I’ll be right back.”
Elizabeth made her exit, hips swiveling in the kind of model’s runway gait I’d never get away with in a million years (or try in a million years).
With the world’s coyest grin, Dylan turned to me. “Cool or what?”
“Or what!”
He put a finger to his lips, silently reminding me we were undercover. Well, I was undercover. Naked under cover. Dylan was fully clothed.
“How the hell did you get in here?” I hissed.
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned on the massage table. “Easy. I told them I was a graduate of the Cornick School of Massage in Chicago, class of 2003. Top of the class, mind you.”
“And they took your word for it?”
“Once I showed them my credentials, resume and the glowing recommendations from two of my teachers.” He shook his head. “Of course, I had to give a demonstration massage to the office administrator.”
“Ms. Pipps?”
“The very one. Is that one uptight redhead or what? But she seemed impressed enough to hire me.”
“What do you know about massage?” I demanded.
He feigned hurt. “Plenty.”
“Let me guess, you really did attend the Cornick School.”
“Nope.” He linked his fingers, extended his arms, and cracked his knuckles. “Just the Dylan Foreman School. It’s not that hard, really. I just kind of go on … instinct. Slowly. Deeply. Instinctually.”
I made a mental note to tell Elizabeth the first thing I needed upon her return was the heat turned down in here. “And that works?” I mocked. “Slowly. Deeply. Instinctually?”
“Well it certainly worked enough to fool Ms. Pipps.”
Checkmate.
Elizabeth knocked and waited until Dylan called permission to enter. As if she didn’t want to interrupt something. Was that why this place was so popular with the ladies?
“It’s fine. Mrs. Pipps says I’m to accommodate your stay completely, Ms. Davenport.”
“Thank you, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth went over to the prep area in the corner of the room and started shuffling through the bottles of lotions, towels and candles, trying to make herself look busy and efficient. To me, of course, but also to Dylan, I had no doubt.
“Well.” Dylan cleared his throat. “I guess we’d better get started here.”
Great. Just freaking great.
I closed my eyes and retreated into my brain. “Hello, is this the Springer Show? I have an idea for you. Why don’t you do a show where a forty-year old woman lies buck-naked on a table at the hands of a handsome, young, totally studly employee. Wouldn’t that be a hoot!”
Oh well, Mother would watch that episode.
And then I felt Dylan’s hands on me. My eyes flew open as his hands glided up my back. Oh, yikes! I took a deep, steadying breath. This did not have to be awkward, I lectured myself. It didn’t have to be sexual. I’d just close my eyes and pretend it was Elizabeth kneading my shoulders.
There. I let my breath out slowly. That was the trick.
Except Elizabeth’s soft little hands could never feel like this. These hands were large and hard, the fingers strong. Despite my own lecture, I felt myself react to his touch. Then, because there didn’t seem to be a damned thing I could do about it, I decided to just let myself feel. He started at my shoulders, finding and rubbing free the knots that I didn’t even know were there. I could feel the strength of the man, but also the gentleness within the power. I felt the slickness of the oil, warm and penetrating, the lovely friction….