Angela tipped her head left and right. “There’s four types of guys.” Max waited for her to go on. Angela rested her chin on her hand, still looking at the Greek God. “There’s the doable guys.” She glanced at Max. “You know, the ones you wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers.”
Just like Sutter would have said. Max was thinking that very thing the other night in regards to the Greek God.
Angela winked. “Then there’s the blowable ones.” A quick sideways glance to make sure Max was paying attention. “Don’t need to explain that one. Then there’s guys like him.” She sighed. “For him, Max, I’d swallow.”
Max laughed outright. “Kind of like the top of the food chain, huh?”
Angela turned a breathless smile on her. “God, Max, we really are sisters, I swear. That should have been my line.”
“So I guess he’s the one.”
“Sor-ree.” She slowly shook her head, sat back. “The other thing about guys like him is that they’re self-absorbed.” Angela made a face, then rejected Mr. Greek God. “I’d have to worry about my own orgasm.” She turned her back to him completely. “I prefer the fourth type, the mild type, the ones who are a tad more desperate.”
“The ones you can help?”
She pointed one polished nail at Max. “Exactly. They need me. He doesn’t. The greater the need, the more they’ll pay.”
Max evaluated the entire conversation. Angela didn’t know him, Max was sure, so she let that question go. “So not him. Who then?”
Angela turned, chin atop her clasped hands once more, her dark brown eyes a man’s chocolate wet dream in the dim light. Angela blinked, then lifted her lips in a half-smile. “Oh, tonight’s not for me, Max. It’s for you.”
“Me?” She gave a very unfeminine squeak.
“We dressed you up—the makeup’s good, by the way—and now we’re going to let you loose on these guys.”
“I’m here to observe.” Max’s heart beat a rap song in her chest.
Angela widened her eyes. “You said that so quickly, I don’t think you’ve thought through all the possibilities.” She spread her hand and indicated the room with a sweep of her arm. “Look at them out there. You can have your pick.”
As the week had moved on, the place had gotten busier. Wednesday night, hump day, conventioneers wanted a little fun. Maybe some were returning home tomorrow and wanted to go for broke on their last night. The songs being played, though not totally eclipsed by voices and laughter, were harder to identify. Fewer older couples ventured out, more groups of men, women, mixed couples. The dance floor, while not packed, was too dense for the beautiful ballroom dancing practiced on the previous evenings. The music had at least moved into the nineties.
So many eyes, men’s eyes, focused surreptitiously on their table, on Angela’s chest, Max’s legs. They left her moist and needy. Hot and ready. Breathless.
“You should have seen them when you walked in.” Angela leaned closer. “The shoes really got them.” Her gaze traveled the room. “Which one do you want?”
Max’s heel tapped a staccato beat against the floor. She couldn’t have stopped the nervous tick if she tried. “I really don’t think—”
“That’s it,” Angela cut her off, “you think too much. But haven’t you ever wondered?”
“About what?” Max knew very well about what and wondered instead how the hell she was going to steer the conversation back to Angela and hopefully to Lance.
“Did you know in a study done in 1989, women’s most powerful fantasy was to be paid for sex?”
“1989. That’s an old study.”
Angela’s voice dipped, low, seductive. “Haven’t you ever wanted to see how much a man would pay for you? Just once? Haven’t you wanted to feel the power when he comes because you made him, knowing he paid you for the pleasure? Knowing you can make him do just about anything you want? Anything.”
Max swallowed, throat suddenly dry. She’d admitted as much to Angela last night, and now the woman used it against her. Heat came in waves, her skin flushed. The power word. The all-seeing, all powerful Max. Yes, she’d fantasized about it. Yes, she believed most women had, in the deepest darkest part of the night when they couldn’t be found out.
“That’s why you really came here, isn’t it?” Angela went on in that hypnotic tone while Max scanned the room. “You didn’t do it for a book or a career. You did it to make that fantasy real.” She touched Max’s arm, slid the stem of the wineglass into her fingers, helped her lift the sweet white zinfandel to her lips with a gentle push. “Pick one, Max. Any one. See if you can do it. You know you want to test that power.”
Pick one. Any one. If she had her choice. If she actually could do it. Her eyes roamed the room, met a glance or two, saw others slide away, including the Greek God’s. Him perhaps? Hadn’t she wanted him to answer a question or two? She moved on, checking the full field available, all the while Angela’s voice in her ear egging her on.
Dark hair, brown eyes, balding, plump, florid, mustache, a cornucopia of choices.
Finally, broad shoulders, full chest, blond hair, blue eyes.
Icy blue eyes and a dimple in the chin to die for.