Sandra Marton - The Bedroom Business

Jake frowned.

“Here,” he said, advancing towards her, “let me help you.”

“It isn’t necessary. I can—”

Too late. He was already squatting before her, lifting her foot into his lap and tugging.

“Really, Mr. McBride…”

Jake pulled off the boot. No wonder it had been hard to remove. Her boots were made of thin black leather and she was wearing heavy socks. Heavy wool socks, over feet that were attached to long, slender legs.

Oh, yeah. Archer, the bastard, had called it right. Her legs were good. Excellent, as a matter of fact.

“Thank you,” Emily said.

Jake lifted his eyes to her face. “You’re welcome.” He cleared his throat, looked down at the foot, still in his hands, and tried to think of something intelligent to say. “You’re wearing socks.” Brilliant, he thought trying not to wince, just brilliant, McBride. “I mean—you’re wearing—”

“Socks,” she said stiffly. “Wool socks. Double knit. I guess that’s the reason the boots are so hard to get off. I wore them because I thought I might have to walk at least part of the way home, if the snow keeps up, and these boots aren’t really warm…”

Her voice trailed to silence. Why was she telling him all this? He was holding her foot in his hands, looking at it as if he’d never seen a foot before. And she was explaining why she was wearing wool socks, as if it mattered.

“Socks,” he murmured, and looked up at her again. He had such a strange look on his face. That darkness in his eyes.

Maybe he thought she was going to walk around the office in heavy wool socks all day.

“Yes. But I’ll take them off. I have panty hose underneath…”

Oh, good. Now she was telling him about her underwear. Emily colored and pulled her foot from Jake’s hands.

“Thank you again,” she said briskly. “I’ll get to the mail immediately.”

“Not without taking that other boot off.”

“I can manage.”

“I doubt it.”

“Honestly, Mr. McBride—”

Jake knew he could get the boot off with one quick tug but considering the condition she’d put him in, with that comment about her underwear, he figured it was best to take his time.

“There,” he said, when it was safe. He dropped the boot beside its mate and rose to his feet. “All done.”

Emily nodded. “Thank you,” she said again.

“You’re welcome.”

He looked as if he were going to say something more. A few words of apology, maybe, for the way he’d snapped at her before? No such luck. He gave her a quick nod, swung away and went back inside his office.

The door closed silently behind him.

Emily sat motionless. Her feet were tingling. Not the way they’d tingle if the circulation were coming back after they’d been freezing cold. She’d felt that, once, when she was a little girl and she’d missed the school bus and ended up walking home in the snow. No, they were tingling in a very strange way. As if they were still in McBride’s lap. As if his big hands were still holding them. As if he were still looking up at her with his eyes all dark and hungry…

The room seemed to tilt.

Emily dragged air into her lungs. Then she took off her socks, slipped her feet into the shoes she’d brought with her, and got to work.

Hours later, she sighed, blinked owlishly at her computer screen and pushed back from her desk. It was almost one o’clock. Time for lunch, she thought, and rose from her chair. She gave a ladylike stretch, opened the drawer to get her purse…and saw the copy of GOTHAM, still opened to the personal ads.

She made a face, picked up the magazine and dumped it into the wastebasket.

“Goodbye and good riddance,” she said, and dusted off her hands.

Last night had cured her of even thinking about going out for an evening with a man she didn’t know anything about.

On the other hand, choosing a date from the Personals would be different.

She might not really “know” the man, but she wouldn’t go into it blindfolded. At least, she’d have some information about her date beforehand. And she wouldn’t have to waste an entire evening. She could suggest they meet for lunch, or coffee, or for nothing more complicated than a walk in the park. She could control the character of this kind of date and not end up finding out, as she had last night, that the only thing the man in question wanted was to get into her pants.

Emily plucked the discarded magazine from the wastebasket, opened it and laid it on her desk.

Handsome, sexy, successful male, 40, D, Br & Br, ISO beautiful, sexy female, preferably br&br, too…

Handsome, successful, sexy, Romeo, 33, S, BL and bl, looking for his beautiful, sexy Juliet…

Sexy, handsome guy, 38, ND, blond and blue, very successful, ISO sexy, beautiful lady, preferably Br&B…

It was like reading a code. ISO for “in search of.” D for “divorced,” S for “single,” ND for “newly divorced.” B’s for hair and eye color. Unless you had red hair. Or gold. Or…

Oh, this was ridiculous. Advertisements by men for women. Reading them was a joke. They were so phony. If every guy who was dateless in New York was sexy, easy on the eyes and successful, why were they running these ads? She knew better than to fall for all those adjectives. In fact, if she had to come up with the name of a gorgeous, sexy, successful man, the only one she’d be able to muster was that of Jake Mc…

Emily’s heartbeat stumbled. Quickly, she grabbed the telephone, punched in the Personals number, listened impatiently as a recorded female voice offered available options.

To reply to a LoveNote, the voice said nasally, please enter the number of the LoveNote you’ve selected.

Emily entered a number. She waited, heard a husky male voice say “hello,” listened to what was, more or less, a repeat of the ad in the magazine, and waited for the ad to end and the tone to sound. At last, it did. It was time to leave a message for Mr. Handsome, Sexy and Successful, 40, D, brown and brown.

Her mouth was dry as sand. She thought, fleetingly, of the sad red geranium sitting at home on her kitchen table, which she kept forgetting to water…

Beeeep!

Emily swallowed, licked her lips and took a breath. Sound sexy, she told herself.

“Good afternoon.” Great. Just great. She sounded about as sexy as a Girl Scout trying to sell cookies. “Hi,” she said, trying for perky, if not sexy. “Uh, I’m calling to say—to say that I think I might be just the Brrr and Brrr—uh, the Brown and Brown you’re looking for.” She hesitated, checked the ad again. Sexy, it said. And beautiful. Emily chewed on her lip. “Well, maybe not. I mean, I have brown hair. And brown eyes. But I’m not exactly sexy. Or beautiful.” Her voice cracked. “But, really, is that so awful? ‘Beautiful’ means having qualities that delight the senses. I know that because I had to look it up once, in the dictionary. I wanted the exact meaning because I was writing a term paper on Shelley. The poet, you know? Anyway, I’m just saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and handsome probably is, too. So even if you’re not as handsome as you say you are, that’s okay because I’m not…” She groaned, put her hand to her forehead. “As for sexy, well, what does ‘sexy’ mean, anyway? Different things in different cultures. For example, when I was studying anthro, I learned that sexual attractiveness varies enormously from tribe to tribe in the Amazon. Some view nudity as the norm. Others, perhaps after they’ve had some contact with the outside world, disdain nudity but see nothing wrong with indulging in coitus with a variety of partners. There’s a particular pygmy tribe—”

A large male hand slammed down on the telephone cradle, breaking the connection. Emily jerked her head up. McBride was standing over her, looking down and glaring.