Brief Encounters. Suzanne Forster

he said. “Women do—and you should be sorry.”

      His voice was dangerously low and husky, and she had the feeling he didn’t often give women the once-over quite so boldly. His hot gaze brushed her body, lingering here and there—especially there, as if he were imagining her with her pants down and him on his knees. Her belly clutched deeply. Her skin had begun to flush and tingle, and by the time his eyes returned to hers she was actually trembling inside. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

      Swiftly another sensation came upon her. She had to pee! She crossed her ankles and smiled as best she could under the circumstances.

      He must have noticed because he snorted low laughter. “Maybe we had both better get back to work?” he suggested. And with that he was gone.

      Swan groaned and headed for the bathroom, which was just off the music room, fortunately. Her face was still ablaze with embarrassment, but at least she would get a moment alone to collect herself.

      From behind she heard Gerard call out, “Oh, Swaaan…”

      She stopped dead in her tracks, whirled around and pointed her finger at him. “Not a word, Gerard. Not one word from you.”

      “Whatever you say,” he murmured.

      Swan thought she heard a reference to “Deep Throat” as she dashed into her sanctuary and shut the door. She didn’t have to see her beastly assistant to know that he was grinning from ear to ear.

      ROB GAINES should not have been smiling. He had work to do. He shouldn’t have been thinking about her, either, but short of a drug-induced coma, he didn’t see that happening. How often did an incredibly hot redhead sidle up to a man, pull down his pants and drop to her knees in front of him? At a moment like that there wasn’t a whole lot else to think about except what she was planning to do next, with her breath so steamy hot and her gorgeous mouth just inches from his—

      The twinge of near pain in his groin brought him back to his senses.

      Gaines, stop smiling or you’re going to permanently injure yourself.

      He pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers and went to work. But as he played with the phone, his thoughts veered back to her. Too bad he couldn’t sign up for dance lessons. She could teach him how to dip and he could teach her what happens when curious little girls play games with big boys.

      He could imagine reaching around to undo all that wild redness she kept piled on top of her head and letting it fall loose around her shoulders. He could also imagine kissing her gorgeous lips until they were wet with desire.

      He could imagine a few other things, too, but his jeans were getting crowded again—and he had work to do. A mission to accomplish. Quickly. Before anyone had a chance to walk in and interrupt him.

      2

      SWAN HAD ALL OF NINETY seconds to herself in the bathroom before her cell phone rang. She considered ignoring it but remembered Lynne had promised to call, and she needed to talk to her partner. If it turned out to be someone else, they would just have to listen to her tinkle.

      Swan hit the talk button, but didn’t even get to say hello.

      “Can you spell yacht?” Lynne Carmichael sang out. “I’m on his yacht, Swan! Gvon Marcello’s yacht! We’re heading out to sea in a matter of minutes.”

      “I can’t even spell Gvon,” Swan admitted. “What are you doing on his yacht? I need you here!”

      And that was an understatement. She and Lynne weren’t just business partners, they’d been all but inseparable since childhood, sharing everything, especially their problems. They’d gone to the same schools right up until they graduated high school, when Swan had received a scholarship to study design at Brooks College, and Lynne had pursued a business degree at U.S.C.

      “Swan, this is big. Big. I showed Gvon our stuff, and he loves it. He’s dropping hints that he might give us our own label. We’d design for him, but it would be our name on the clothes. And he doesn’t want just underwear. He wants loungewear, too, and maybe eventually, sportswear, men’s and women’s. Think about it, Swan. This is a dream come true.”

      Swan had thought their tour was a dream come true, but she could hear Lynne’s excitement. “How did you meet him and why are you on his yacht?”

      “It was that fund-raiser fashion show I told you about. One of the models introduced me to Gvon, and I had my suitcase of samples with me. Now he wants to talk business, and he said we could do that on his boat—I mean, yacht, excuse me!”

      Swan’s sense of urgency grew and it wasn’t just physical. “Lynne, is this what we want to do? Team up with someone else?” They’d worked so hard for this chance to have their own line and they’d always seemed equally driven to succeed. Lynne came from money and Swan didn’t, but that had never mattered to either of them. Swan sometimes wondered if they each needed to prove themselves because of their very different stations in life—Lynne because she’d been given so much and Swan because she’d been given so little.

      “It’s not someone else. It’s Gvon Marcello! How many pipsqueak designers like us ever get this chance? Just to be near him is golden.”

      Lynne was not going to be talked out of this opportunity. That much was clear, and Swan didn’t necessarily want to pass it up, either. Big breaks came rarely in their business.

      “Okay, okay, do what you can,” Swan said, “and then get yourself back here. The party’s tomorrow night.”

      There was a distinct gulp on the other end. “I’ll never make it back for the party, Swan. We’re heading out for some secret destination, and even I don’t know where we’re going. Gvon’s destinations are always secret, so the press won’t find out.”

      “And you’ll be back when?”

      “Two days, three at the most. I know this is crazy and unexpected, but think of the chance to bond with a couture designer.”

      “Bond? It sounds like you’re being kidnapped.”

      “Oops, we’re leaving. Hear that horn? Now, listen to me, Swan, this is important. Art Long called me, and our loan’s come through. You need to go to the bank at ten tomorrow and pick up the check. Art will be waiting for you.”

      The check, thank God! They’d had to mass produce their line to supply the boutiques, and the cost was staggering. Without this money, they wouldn’t be able to handle the mounting bills or pay their share of the tour expenses.

      “You’re going to have to sign for it,” Lynne was saying, “and you may have to sign my name, as well, but don’t worry. You’ve done that before on business stuff. Besides, Art’s the loan officer, and he’ll push it through.”

      Swan winced at the pressure, both from Lynne’s news and her own bladder. She’d held back out of correct telephone etiquette, but everyone had a breaking point. A sigh of relief escaped her.

      “Are you peeing?” Lynn asked.

      How could she tell? Swan plucked the air freshener from the back of the commode and spritzed the air, as if that could disguise her failure of nerve. How many over-achievers out there had to trot to the john just when things were getting challenging? This had to be a club with a membership of one.

      “I’ll take care of the check,” she assured Lynne. “Have fun, but if you’re not back in time for the L.A. show, I’m coming to get you.”

      “So I guess the audition went badly?” Lynne persisted. “If you’re in the bathroom, it must have been bad.”

      “Sometimes people just have to go. I was in here when you called.”

      Lynne sighed. “How bad was it, Swan? You might as well tell me.”

      “Terrible.” Swan shuddered at the thought. “I molested a repairman, thinking he was one of the models.”