Gena Showalter: The Pleasure Slave

"Hello."

"Hi, Mr. Schetfield. It's Julia Anderson. I'm calling to see if you've hired anyone to fix the plumbing here at the shop."

"The plumbing's broke?" A stream of air crackled over the line, and she pictured him smoking one of his cigars. "When did that happen?"

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Stay calm. Try to forget that you've phoned him three times in as many weeks about this problem. Could be worse, Julia. You could be imagining Mr. Body's luscious navel and the dark hair that plunged …

Argh.

"The toilet doesn't flush," she reminded her landlord. "The sink turns on and off of its own free will, and the pipes are making that noise again. Something needs to be done, Mr. Schetfield. Soon." She pinched the bridge of her nose, imagining another week of closing the shop to run next door every time she needed to pee.

In such a prime location, gaining business from surrounding restaurants and boutiques, she paid an exorbitant amount for rent. An exorbitant amount she didn't mind paying because she loved the old Mexican-style building. Plus, she hoped to expand one day soon, and there was enough space here to do that. But Mr. Schetfield's miserly ways were pushing her to the edge of her tolerance.

"I'll take care of the problem," he said. "Don't you worry."

Since that was exactly what he'd told her the last time she called, Julia didn't allow herself to hope he spoke the truth. "Why don't you tell me how much you're willing to spend. I'll call a plumber and make sure he doesn't exceed your limit."

"No. That just won't work." The old man's rough voice crept a notch higher. "I want my son, Morgan, to do the job. Good boy, my Morgan."

"All right." She sighed. "Please call me in the morning and—" The bell over the door chimed, signaling the arrival of a customer. Julia hurried to end the conversation. "Just let me know what time Morgan will arrive, okay?"

"Can do."

The connection severed. She replaced the phone in its cradle and strode to the front of the store. A tall pleasant-looking man dressed in a suit and tie stood in the entryway, a bewildered, what-do-I-do-next expression on his face.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Julia asked, drawing his attention.

"Yes. Yes, there is." His lips lifted in a relieved smile. "This is going to sound strange, but I'm searching for a glass donkey. My mother collects them, and her birthday is tomorrow."

"Any color preference? Or era?"

Surprise flashed in his big brown eyes. He shook his head. "No. I'll take whatever you have in stock. I've been to six different antique dealers. You're my last hope."

"I have two here," she said, her pride evident. "Does your mother prefer blown glass or etched?"

"I'm not sure." He ran his tongue over his teeth. "Why don't I buy both?"

"Excellent choice." In the center of the store, Julia climbed a gray step stool and rooted around a shelf for the desired items. A few seconds later, the tinkling of the doorbell sounded again. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled warmly when she saw who had arrived. "Good morning, Mrs. Danberry."

"Morning, dear." Mrs. Danberry, a regular customer of Julia's Treasures, gave her quintessential "old woman" curls a pat. Immediately the springy silver bob bounced back into place. "I came to see if you have anything new."

"Yesterday I acquired a corncob pipe that I know you'll love. I'll have it ready for viewing in a few days."

"Oh, wonderful. I'm still going to have a look around, though. I might've missed something the last time I came in."

"Of course." Still grinning, Julia returned her attention to the shelf. When she found what she needed, she lifted the donkeys from their perches and eased to the floor. "Here you go," she told the man, bequeathing him both items. "Are these what you had in mind?"

He palmed each one in a different hand. After studying them, he blew out a satisfied breath. "Yes, they are. They're perfect, actually."

"The first is a seventeenth-century model made from—"

"No need to explain," he interjected. "I'm already sold on them. You just saved me a lecture about a son's responsibility to his family."

A chuckle tickled her throat. "Glad I could be of assistance."

He tilted his chin and gave her a lingering onceover. He cleared his throat. "You know, you have very pretty eyes."

His words, though innocent, caused her tongue to thicken, a familiar sensation whenever she spoke with the male species about, well, anything remotely flirtatious. She quickly lost her good humor. "Uh, I—uh — thanks. You, too." After that, speech became impossible. She tried anyway, managing another «uh» and two grunts.

"Are you all right?" he asked, concerned.

Her cheeks warmed. She nodded, though what she really wanted to do was slink away and hide. The admiration slowly faded from his expression. He gave her a strange perusal, paid for his donkeys and left without another word.

"You really should work on your technique, dear," Mrs. Danberry said, strolling to the cash register. "He might have asked you on a date."

Julia squeezed her eyes shut and let her head sink into her upraised hands. Was it too much to ask for God to strike her down with a bolt of lightning?

That night, Julia lay underneath a downy comforter, tossing and turning. When she actually slept, she once again dreamed of Mr. Half-Naked touching her. Kissing her. Their naked, sweaty bodies tangled together in passion. She'd lost count of how many "Oh, Gods" she'd uttered.

Why did her dream lover refuse to leave her mind? And why was she still lying in bed, allowing him to slide those phantom hands over her nipples, down her stomach and slip inside her panties? Circling, grazing, sinking deeply into her. After two more "Oh Gods," Julia scowled and lumbered wearily to her feet, sweeping aside the gauzy, cream-colored canopy that enclosed her bed. She needed something to do, something that was totally and completely un pleasurable.

Her taxes! Yes, that was it. She marched into her office, grabbed her books and carried them to the kitchen, where there was more room to work. She plopped into the nearest chair, an eighteenth-century brocade bench she'd acquired at an estate sale several years ago.

Five minutes later, she shoved the books aside with a growl. She was tired, cranky—okay, she was still aroused—and the numbers were blurring together. She needed something else to do.

Since her newest acquisitions were still strewn across the table, she picked up the jewelry box. She'd never discovered what lay inside, had she? She tried to depress the lid's latch, but her finger shook and refused to make contact. Brow puckered, she tried again. Once more, the shaking stopped her. What was the problem? It wasn't like Mr. Half-Naked and his sword would reappear.

You're thinking about him again , her mind tsked.

"For God's sake," she muttered, jabbing the button. "This is ridiculous." Lights flickered throughout her house. Purple mist drifted upward. An intoxicating scent of masculinity surrounded her. This time, Julia didn't jump up, didn't drop the box atop her hard-carved tabletop. She simply bit her bottom lip, staring wide-eyed as Mr. Half-Naked did, indeed, appear. He was still half-dressed—and he still carried a sword. "Omigod." And not a good, this-feels-so-wonderful omigod, the kind that had filled her dreams. But a bad, what-the-hell-is-happening omigod. Julia gulped. "I'm having a nightmare. That's all it is."

She rubbed a palm down her face, blinked her eyes and shook her head, thinking such a gorgeous creature would vanish by the time she refocused. His extraordinary image never even wavered. He isn't real , she mentally chanted, slowly rising to her feet. He isn't real, he isn't real, he isn't real .