Her Secret Life. Gwynne Forster

through her when his gaze landed on her breasts and settled there. She’d have given anything if she could rub them. Thank God, he didn’t pick that moment to shift his gaze to her face. She couldn’t even take a long, deep breath without giving herself away. A few minutes in the man’s presence would discombobulate her if she were less resolved.

      “Anything else, sir?”

      He didn’t seem to have heard her; a newcomer who sat nearby had his attention. That man, whom another guest had referred to as Mac, seemed out of place in Allegory, Inc., especially among Warren Holcomb’s guests. Jackie looked for a reason to linger. She wanted to observe the man closely.

      “Did you say that was all, sir?” she asked, stalling for time.

      “Well, perhaps you could bring us some hot hors d’oeuvres.”

      She went to a phone about five feet from where he sat and phoned in the order, watching Mac as she did so. He was a misfit, and as a reporter, such characters always arrested her attention. Whenever she was in the club, her antenna didn’t stop working, for she had much to lose by working as a cocktail waitress in that high-profile, rich-man’s club, and she was always on the lookout for anything unsavory.

      Where is my head? she asked herself when she was serving the hors d’oeuvres, suddenly aware that she moved at a much slower pace than usual. She justified it by telling herself that to move slowly and graciously rather than to gallop like a horse was more feminine. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to know what Mac was saying to one of the other guests. Never good at fooling herself, Jackie was smart enough to know that Warren was her main reason both for lingering there and for wanting to seem more ladylike than she appeared in the skimpy and revealing uniform.

      Whenever she looked at him, or when he looked at her, she got a warm feminine feeling all over, and she couldn’t remember when last a man could lay claim to causing that.

      “Anything else, sir?” she asked him, her right hand on the doorknob as she prepared to leave the private lounge.

      “No. These are delicious. Thank you.”

      “You are welcome, sir.”

      She felt a small amount of pride as she noticed his failed attempt to appear businesslike. His furtive glances set her blood to racing, and what a pity that was. She had told herself time and again that she didn’t want an involvement with any man who frequented the club, and she believed she meant it, but Warren Holcomb was the epitome of temptation. Whenever she met him in the club corridors or saw him standing talking with someone, she thought of him as a young bull. Trim and powerful, the man’s six-foot four-inch physique made most of the club members suffer by comparison. It wasn’t his race but his bearing that distinguished him, and if he realized what a standout he was, he didn’t show it.

      The following morning, she telephoned a former classmate, a law enforcement officer in Washington, D.C. “Hi, Clayton. This is Jacqueline. What can you get me on a guy named Mac with this description?” She described Mac.

      “Right on, girl. Have it for you in a couple of hours. Why don’t you give up magazine editing and stick with crime reporting? You’re good at it, and I’ll bet it pays more.”

      Let him think whatever he liked. “Because I like to eat, and AAW pays me a regular salary.”

      “Marry me. You’ll be as poor as Job’s turkey, but when you’re in bed every night, you’ll be as happy as a little pig in hog heaven. How about it?”

      Laughter flowed out of her as it always did minutes after she began speaking with him. “You’re a certified nut, but at least you’re a first-class one.”

      “Thanks for nothing. Call me at one this afternoon.”

      “Will do. Thanks, friend.”

      By one-fifteen, she knew that Mac had been indicted twice for acting as a pimp for a Washington, D.C. madam, but had no convictions. She wondered whether Warren Holcomb knew Mac’s record. If he did, why would he associate with such a person?

      At five-thirty each evening that she worked, Jackie Parks removed her eyeglasses, inserted prescription contact lenses that changed her irises from dark brown to dark hazel, donned a black wig that had hair that hung almost to her hips, put on a heavy coat of makeup, dressed and headed for the club. On this particular evening, to shorten the distance to her dressing room, she entered the club through a side door rather than through its imposing Fifth Avenue entrance, intending to take an elevator that she rarely used.

      She was about to enter the elevator when Warren Holcomb charged out of it and sent her sprawling. Stunned, she lay on the floor, gazing up at him.

      “Damn!” he said. “Have I hurt you? Are you all right?” Even as the words left his mouth, he hovered above her, reaching for her. And as if her five-foot, nine-inch frame didn’t weigh one hundred and forty-five pounds, he lifted her as he would a small child, cradling her in his arms.

      “I’m…I’m okay. J-Just a little shaken up.”

      He didn’t release her, but held her and stroked her back. “I’m so sorry. You’re the last person I’d want to hurt.” Jackie knew she should get out of the man’s arms, but her whole body tingled. Alive. Warmer and getting hotter. He had an aura of power, but to her, he communicated warmth and gentleness. Mastery. She wanted to put her head on his shoulder and rest it there. Her mind told her she was insane, but her body wanted to be close to him forever. Coming to her senses, she stepped back from him, found a spot beyond his shoulder and focused on it.

      “Sure you’re okay?” he insisted. His voice, mellifluous, low and urgent sent tremors through her.

      “I’m fine.”

      The first to reclaim her wits, she tried to smile, but failed. She bent to pick up her pocketbook but, simultaneously, he attempted to retrieve it, and their heads collided.

      “Ooh,” she said and, immediately, his arms went around her as if to soothe her.

      “Looks as if I’m trying to kill you, but believe me, I’m not.” It seemed to her as if he hugged her; at least, she’d swear that he held her closer. He gazed down at her, his eyes ablaze, less with concern than with desire.

      “I know that. Accidents will happen.” He was dragging it out, playing it for all it was worth, she knew, but she didn’t feel like calling him on it.

      “Am I forgiven?”

      “Of course.” Oh, the glorious feel of his hands on her, strong and masculine! Possessive, as if they had a right to her body. Man. All man. Lord! She had to straighten out her head. After a minute, she managed to step out of his arms.

      “Where on earth were you going at that rate of speed?” she asked him. At his height and with his solid build, she was lucky to be conscious.

      At her question, a troubled, almost frightened expression settled over his face. “Shoot, the parking meter. It would be my luck that the traffic cops would have my car towed.”

      She frowned. “The parking meter? You mean you don’t have a chauffeu?”

      “No. Why would I need one? I know how to drive.”

      “B-But every man here has a chauffeur. I thought…never mind what I thought.” Hmm. So Mr. Holcomb was one big-shot who didn’t have an inflated estimation of himself. He’d just gone up several notches in her opinion.

      Warren Holcomb had begun life at the bottom of the heap, so to speak, and remained there for almost half of his life. However, by his wits and ambition, he became, by age forty, sole owner of luxury hotels in Washington, D.C., Nairobi, Kenya and Honolulu. He was currently planning to build one on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard in Harlem. He’d accepted membership in Allegory, Inc. to show that success and manners meant more than skin color, and he was always happy to inform anyone interested that he hadn’t applied for membership, but had been invited to join. So far, he wasn’t sorry that he was a member.

      “I told the traffic