Dance: Dance of the Seven Veils Read online

  She knew she was being abrupt, but the thought of calling Robert Savidge at home, wondering if he was in the same room that she was in right now—the bedroom—could cloud her judgment if she wasn’t vigilant. She’d told Michelle it had been one of those religious fanatics at the door, handing out brochures and preaching their faith, then felt guilty all throughout the meal. Luckily, ‘Chelle hadn’t pursued the matter, and had gone to her room after eating to chat online with her friends.

  It wasn’t her relationship with Robert Savidge she was hiding, Lyssa argued with herself. She was shielding her daughter from her father’s perfidy.

  Savidge’s voice vibrated low and sexy in her ear. “I have a number of suggestions.”

  Lyssa gripped the phone harder. His voice poured over her like warm honey over French toast. She wanted nothing so much as to have him lick it off her skin…

  “But I think the best one is this.”

  She realized she had reclined on top of the bedspread, boneless and soft. She sat up abruptly, then took the cordless phone with her to sit on an uncushioned side chair. She would not speak to him in bed.

  “And that is?”

  “I see by the file that Quick, Bowers & Savidge is the fiduciary for Miss Markham’s trust fund. As the attorney of record, Jack usually signs the checks, but they have to be requested in writing by the trustee.”

  “And that’s George, of course.” Lyssa couldn’t keep the bitterness from her tone. Of course, it was all his money. She’d married him at eighteen, and had dropped out of college when she became pregnant right away. When George started earning big fees at his brokerage firm, he wouldn’t let her work, but doled out small amounts of “throwaway” money that she didn’t have to account for. Everything else she paid for by a credit card whose statement he received, or the joint checking account that he reconciled. So he knew what she’d bought and how much she’d spent.

  “Yes. Mr. Markham is the sole trustee. Since he obviously asked Jack to write that letter you received today, we can’t go that route.”

  Lyssa bristled. “I know that.”

  Unfazed, he continued. “Here’s how we can get around that. Quick, Bowers & Savidge can advance the trust fund a loan of fourteen thousand dollars for three months with interest at prime, with the trust as collateral. Jack can sign the loan agreement as fiduciary, and I can sign the check for the firm.”

  Lyssa sat up straighter. “Really? It’s that simple?”

  “We’ll have the papers drawn up first thing tomorrow, so Jack can sign before he goes to court. I’ll sign the check and you can pick it up at, say, noon.” Savidge lowered his voice to a soft purr. “Then I’ll take you out to lunch to celebrate.”

  She could just picture the way he’d suggest they have lunch…pouring champagne on her belly and licking it off, smearing peanut butter on her breasts and—

  Good Lord, what was the matter with her? That money had to be in Dartmouth’s coffers tomorrow! She tamped down, hard, on her raging libido, tried to ignore the sensual pull of his voice caressing her like a tongue.

  “Not a check.” Her voice sounded forceful. She was proud of herself. “It has to be wire transferred. I’ll call Mr. Bowers’ assistant first thing tomorrow morning with the bank routing number. And she can call me back when she gets confirmation of the transaction.”

  A soft laugh rippled through the phone into her ear, kissing the skin all the way down her throat. “As you wish.”

  Disappointment speared through her. Obviously he’d only mentioned lunch as an apology for his unconscionable behavior earlier in the day, which he had no desire to repeat.

  Dammit, she didn’t either! She had no business even thinking that way. He was a stranger. She knew nothing about him. Except that he was a successful attorney who wore hand-tailored suits, who had a creative solution to a thorny legal problem, who made love like she’d only dreamed of…

  He had hung up.

  Lyssa felt bereft.

  Chapter Four

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Markham, but you do have to come to the office to sign some documents before the funds can be transferred.”

  Lyssa bit back a retort at Andrea’s pronouncement. Quick, Bowers & Savidge were doing her a favor with this loan. She couldn’t blame the admin if there was some unforeseen paperwork to make it legal. If she ran into Savidge, she’d freeze him with a look. “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  Briefly she considered wearing the killer Manolo Blahniks that Kat had insisted she buy along with her other indulgence, a red Jones New York, so she wouldn’t look like the poor cousin next to Andrea. But Michelle would want to know where she was going all fancied up. So she settled, almost defiantly, for loose-fitting beige slacks—let him try to do another desk job around that bit of apparel—and matching silk shell with low-heeled sandals.

  With a blithe, “I’ve got to run some errands,” she bade her daughter farewell and drove to downtown Philadelphia, parking in a garage a block from the lawyers’ offices in the prestigious One Liberty Place.

  Squaring her shoulders, Lyssa pushed open the double glass doors for the second time in as many days. Recognizing her, the receptionist said, “Just a moment, Mrs. Markham,” and picked up the phone to announce her.

  Instead of Andrea greeting her, Lyssa heard the low, sexy baritone that had sent shivers down her back before.

  “Come right in,” said Robert Savidge.

  She steeled herself to acknowledge him dispassionately. Her resolve held as she turned to see him without a jacket, the French cuffs on his white shirt held in place with gold and onyx cufflinks, yellow striped tie loosened, top button open. Damn, why did he have to look so sexy, so…approachable?

  He led her, not to his office, but to an anteroom adjoining it. Like its neighbor, the room had a marvelous view of the skyline. Lyssa could see the Convention Center sprawled a couple of blocks beyond City Hall. A sofa and two wing chairs surrounded a massive coffee table that held a number of documents. He gestured her to the sofa, but she chose one of the brown-and-gold flame-stitched chairs, ignoring the upward crook of his mouth. He took the other chair.

  All business now, he walked her through the documents, including the affidavit she needed to sign. It was just for the record, he’d said, but the law firm needed documentation as to why they had incurred the lien obligation and issued the wire transfer. She signed where indicated; he signed the acknowledgement.

  “Let’s get the banking wheels in motion,” he said, standing with the documents in his hand. “I’ll be right back.”

  She hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until Savidge left the room and she relaxed her guard. He’d made everything seem so simple.

  At ease now, she gazed around the chamber. Richly paneled with cherry wainscoting, a very healthy potted ficus in a corner, multi-line phone on a cherry side table, everything bespoke low-key elegance. With a wry smile, she contrasted these surroundings with her own divorce lawyer’s suite—no-nonsense office furniture, diplomas and certificates on walls, Spartan conference room. And she’d gotten exactly what she’d paid for, she realized. She hadn’t wanted to be one of those angry divorcées who stripped their ex of every cent, but, she acknowledged, perhaps she could have been a tad more grasping.

  The hallway door opened. “Hi. Mr. Savidge asked me to bring some refreshments.”

  Lyssa half turned to see the lovely admin coming toward her, carrying a small silver tray with two tall glasses filled with something white and frothy, Sprite maybe, or 7-Up. Andrea walked like a runway model, long strides showing a lot of thigh under the high, off-center slit of her black skirt. Her waist-length red jacket encircled her ribs tightly, emphasizing the curve of her breasts.

  Not two feet away from her, the graceful woman tripped. The tray tilted, spilling the contents of both glasses smack on Lyssa’s silk shell. Lyssa jumped up with a squeak of dismay.

  “Oh, my God, I’m so, so sorry,” Andrea gushed, setting the now-empty tray on the coffee tabl
e with a clatter. She turned to the side table, pulled out a striped hand towel from the drawer and began to blot and stroke Lyssa’s front to absorb the soda.

  “It’s okay,” Lyssa said, trying to take a backward step.

  “No, I apologize. I’m wearing a new pair of heels and I’m not used to them yet. This has never happened before.” She continued stroking, her motions becoming slower, more deliberate. Lyssa felt her nipples turn to hard little pebbles under the admin’s hand.

  “The executive washroom’s right here. This is silk, isn’t it? Gosh, I certainly don’t want that beautiful top to stain. Come with me.” Andrea grabbed her by the upper arm and tugged her to a door that Lyssa had thought was part of the paneling. It opened to reveal a full bath with walk-in, tiled shower with sliding glass doors, john, and hand-painted sink set into a long, marble-topped vanity.

  Once inside, Andrea shut the door with a firm click. “Take off your blouse. We have to sponge off the soda right away.” She opened a cabinet built into the wall and pulled down an ironing board, then reached inside to retrieve a hair dryer. “Come on, if we hurry, we can get you fixed right as rain before Mr. Savidge comes back with the confirmation number of the deposit. The hair dryer might be enough, but I’m plugging in the iron in case we need it.”

  Why was she hesitating? Surely she had misconstrued Andrea’s languid strokes on her breasts. They’d pebbled of their own accord from the icy liquid splattered across her chest, Lyssa argued with herself, and not because of any desire engendered by a woman’s touch. Or maybe it was her lingering thoughts about what Robert Savidge had done to those breasts…

  Resolutely she slipped the wet silk over her head and handed it to Andrea, avoiding eye contact.

  “The bra, too.” Andrea set the garment on the marble counter and stroked the wet silk with a damp sponge. “Won’t do any good to put a dry blouse on a wet bra.”

  With dismay Lyssa saw herself reflected in the mirror covering the entire wall over the basin. The white lace looked transparent. Her nipples stood out, dark pink, erect, and…aching.

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen them before,” Andrea said, her attention seemingly on her chore.

  “What?”

  She looked up then. “Saturday night. You did an excellent Dance of the Seven Veils.”

  Heat flooded Lyssa’s face. She felt the blush creep all the way down, making her breasts an even rosier shade.

  “I was the Indian. With the feather tattoo on my right breast?”

  Lyssa was afraid to meet the admin’s eye. The memory of the boner tenting the loincloth of the Indian bound to the table made her throat dry. Briefly she wondered at the identity of its owner. Then the memory of her own dance that ended with her sprawled naked on the lap of the gladiator—Andrea’s boss!—swamped Lyssa. She leaned weakly against the counter.

  Andrea set down Lyssa’s garment and the sponge. Her fingers went to the buttons of her jacket. In seconds they were undone and she slipped the jacket off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts sprang forth unfettered by a bra. “See?” She lifted her right breast to exhibit the eagle feather tattooed on its outer curve.

  Lyssa swallowed. She vividly remembered the shape of those breasts, the teasing sway of them over the trussed Indian, remembered how the Indian lifted his head to capture first one, then the other ripe offering in his mouth, how the woman with the feather headdress arched her back in ecstasy.

  As if giving her time to decide, Andrea positioned the silk shell on the ironing board and unconcernedly began to dry it with the hair dryer, her freed breasts swaying slightly with the movement of her arm.

  I’m being ridiculous, Lyssa thought. We’re two grown women. We’ve both seen other unclothed women before.

  Besides, if Andrea had been at the masquerade, if she’d known in advance who Lyssa was—as Robert Savidge had known, according to Kat—then her modesty was misplaced. She probably came across as two-faced, playing the puritan now after having shamelessly allowed a stranger to lick her most intimate places in full view of an avid audience.

  The thought of Robert Savidge’s tongue on her slit while her hips bucked, of his cock inside her yesterday, the frantic, urgent fucking, the fever-pitch rising like a runaway train that they couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop, caused Lyssa’s breath to come shorter. As if of their own accord, her hands reached up to touch her breasts, to stroke the hard tips into even more unbearable hardness. Her mouth softened, remembering the way he had suckled them while lifting her off her feet before carrying her to his desk. She wanted, needed his mouth on them right now.

  She pulled the front clasp open and shimmied out of the wet, sugar-sticky bra. In her peripheral vision she could see, reflected in the mirror, two bare-breasted women standing close enough to touch each other if they but lifted their hands. She hadn’t heard Andrea turn off the hair dryer, hadn’t heard her come up next to her. She simply stood there, breath locked in her throat.

  The admin lowered her head and, gently cupping one of Lyssa’s breasts, slowly licked the sensitive skin all around the areola. Lyssa’s eyes closed as she unconsciously arched into the other woman’s mouth. She wanted to grasp the admin’s thick chestnut hair and pull her even closer. She wanted her to suck on the nipple, not tease all around it with her knowing tongue.

  She couldn’t believe she was allowing this to happen. Robert Savidge had turned her life, her values, upside down. A shudder coursed through her as Andrea took as much breast into her mouth as she could fit, then with a delicious suction, pulled backward until it popped out of her mouth. “Mmmm, sticky sweet.” She did the same to Lyssa’s other breast. “Tastes like Sprite,” Andrea murmured. “The real thing. Not diet stuff.”

  The admin lifted her head, looked into Lyssa’s eyes, daring her to reciprocate.

  “I—not—no, I can’t.” She denied her desire, although her chest heaved with arousal. “I’m not ready for…” She couldn’t say it.

  Andrea’s face broke into a soft smile. She placed gentle hands on Lyssa’s shoulders and turned her to the mirror running the length of the counter. Several inches taller, Andrea looked down at Lyssa’s upthrust breasts from behind her, trapping Lyssa between her hips and the counter. “Look how beautiful you are,” she said, her voice a low, silky hum, her fingers skimming down the front of Lyssa’s torso, cupping the undersides of her breasts, reaching up to tweak and pinch the nipples. “No wonder he’s so taken with you.”

  Through the continuing sensual haze the admin’s touch aroused in her, Lyssa managed to ask, “Who?”

  But Andrea simply continued stroking, tweaking, arousing her nipples to even harder, achier peaks. The areolas pebbled roughly, contrasting with the delicate smoothness of the skin surrounding it. Lyssa closed her eyes and savored the streaks of lightning zapping down to her crotch. She wanted Savidge’s mouth there, to capture the lightning, to taste her juices.

  “May I join you?”

  Lyssa’s eyes sprang open. As if conjuring him from her dreams, Robert Savidge’s face appeared reflected in the mirror. Trapped as she was between Andrea’s hips and the counter, Lyssa couldn’t move. Two furiously red spots appeared on her cheeks as she watched him unbutton his white shirt and slide it off broad shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

  The admin shifted slightly, allowing Savidge’s naked chest to press against Lyssa’s back, although she kept her hold on Lyssa’s breasts. His arms encircled both women at the waist. He nuzzled Lyssa’s neck as one hand nudged Andrea’s from its hold, replacing it with his own thumb and forefinger. He rubbed and pinched one nipple, plucking, squeezing, tugging, all the while nipping her ear, her neck, whatever part of her jaw he could reach, with his teeth.

  Helpless against the onslaught of two experts, Lyssa found herself leaning into him, opening herself up to the two different kinds of strokes, one soft and feminine, one harsher and more masculine. Her breathing became choppier. She felt pressure building against her clitoris as it rubbed a
gainst the edge of the cool marble counter.

  Suddenly she found herself turned around. Savidge’s hands came up to trap her face for a bruising kiss of excruciating intensity. He crushed her bare breasts to his chest. The feel of crisp hair scraping her already unbearably sensitive breasts nearly brought her to a climax.

  Lost in that kiss, it took a moment for Lyssa to realize that the side button of her slacks was being manipulated. She heard the sound of her zipper being released, felt the tug of fabric as it—and, oh God, was that her panties, too?—skimmed down her hips and fell to the floor. But both of Savidge’s hands still cradled her face as his tongue plundered inside her mouth.

  Andrea. Andrea was aiding and abetting her boss.

  This thought sent Lyssa to an even higher pitch. She felt slender, deft fingers between herself and Savidge, heard another zipper. My God, she’s undressing her boss!

  Lyssa had never felt so decadent. She’d never even dreamed of a threesome until she’d been sandwiched between two naked men at the masquerade.

  Without releasing his savage hold on her mouth, he lifted her onto the counter. Lyssa felt her slacks being pulled away from her feet. She was so frantic for completion that she eagerly complied when he roughly shoved her knees apart. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, forcing her to steady herself by leaning back on her arms. The movement exposed her slit to both boss and admin, but Lyssa was far too aroused to think about blushing. She needed him inside her. Now.

  He stood immobile, his dark, dark eyes penetrating to her soul, his expression one of intense desire, his breathing a harsh rasp in the quiet room. Still he held back.

  “Say it,” he ground out.

  “Wh—what?” Lyssa couldn’t tear her gaze away from his. She was conscious of his hands on her hips, of his cock throbbing hard and hot just inches from her slit, of Andrea toying with her aching, engorged nipples, of the scent of her own juices swirling in the air. Their movements were so coordinated that it was obvious to Lyssa that they’d aided and abetted each other before, and probably not just at the Platinum Society.