Bad Attitude (9 page)

“Mitch.”

“That's not your line. Your line is ‘What?' Go ahead, read it.”

Oh, hell! He wasn't going to give up. The only thing to do was to get it over as quickly as possible and not to let him see her sweat, as the commercials said.

“Molly … ?”

“Okay, okay. What?” she read.

“You heard me. I said, take off your gown. I want you to scrub my back, and if you don't want to completely ruin that pretty velvet, you'd best take it off.” Mitch lay back across the sofa.

“I'm
not
taking off anything.” Molly's reading was perfectly in character.

“That was good,” Mitch commented.

He continued reading his part. “Do I have to get out of this tub and make you, miss?” He gave her his best, Clint Eastwood-stony stare.

“No!” Molly was surprised by the energy that came naturally with the line. “No. Okay. I'll do it, but you have to promise to keep your head turned away.”

“I promise,” Mitch read, laughing wickedly on cue.

Searching for a prop, Molly grabbed a white dish towel and advanced toward him.

“What do you think you're doing?” he demanded, the perfect inflection in his voice as he watched Molly approach.

“Blindfolding you,” Molly said. “It's in the script, remember.”

“That really isn't necessary,” Mitch objected.

“Uh-uh. If it's in the script, we have to follow it,” Molly insisted, deciding it would be easier to read the love scene with him if he were blindfolded.

“How am I supposed to read my lines?” he wanted to know.

“Just a minute. I have a solution,” Molly said, disappearing and returning a minute later with a silk scarf. “We'll use this. You can see through it, but it will still give you the feel of being blindfolded.”

“You just happened to have this?” Mitch inquired, looking at her. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Shut up.”

“Then I can't say my lines.”

“Then read your lines, but nothing more.”

Mitch looked at his script and read his next line.

“You're taking all the fun out of this.”

“Not for me,” she read.

“Pretend you're undressing,” Mitch instructed.

“Use your imagination,” Molly countered.

“Good idea,” he said, way too agreeably. A provocative smile played at his lips, but he stayed in character, pretending he heard the seductive sounds of her undressing before him.

“Go on. Your line,” he prompted.

“Hand me the soap,” she read.

Mitch felt for the imaginary bar of soap on the sofa that had suddenly become his bathtub. Locating the soap, he held it out to her, just beyond her reach.

Sighing, Molly stepped forward, reaching for the imaginary bar.

Mitch grabbed her hand, catching her off balance, and she fell onto the sofa with him.

“Pretend you hear the water splash,” he instructed.

“What do you think you're doing?” Molly sputtered.

“Exactly what you want me to, Red….” Mitch
knew exactly what he was doing and he knew his lines. His blindfold didn't hide her secrets from him, either. This little game had been a pretense to get her where he wanted her—where, in fact, he knew she wanted to be.

She didn't remember what happened next. Her dream had been interrupted by Angie telling her about Mitch's game of chicken.

Well, he was about to find out that chicken was a game anyone could play. It didn't always have to involve racing cars. But it always involved taking risks.

Risks like those she was about to take.

Taking a deep breath, Molly decided to lay her career, her ego and her heart on the table.

“W
OULD YOU EXCUSE ME
for a moment?” Molly asked, levering herself out of Mitch's arms.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Mitch wanted to know, looking like a kid who'd just dropped his ice-cream cone after only the first lick.

“I'll be right back,” Molly assured him. “I'm going to slip into something more comfortable.”

In the small bedroom she rummaged through her clothes, coming up with a long, white cotton sweater and a pair of fluffy, white cotton socks. Peeling off her Lycra leggings and matching paprika top, she pulled on the sweater and socks—nothing else. After running a brush through her tangled curls, she let the humidity have its way and went back to Mitch.

“So how comfortable did you get?” Mitch asked, reaching to remove his blindfold.

Molly stayed his hand.

“No. Leave the blindfold on.”

Mitch's hand hesitated a few seconds, then returned to his side. “Ah, a bad girl, after all.”

Was she a bad girl? Molly didn't know about that. But she did know that having Mitch see her through hazy silk gave her the confidence to go with her desire, to take control.

“I thought we'd talk,” Molly said, aiming to disconcert him.

“Talk? Oh, no! You're going to berate me, aren't you? Isn't this going a bit too far? Peter the Terrible never blindfolds me when he berates me. Perhaps you should check with the Ketteridge Agency's manual. I really don't think this is agency policy.”

“Mitch…”

“Oh. Were you wanting to talk about protection, then?”

“Mitch!”

“Aw, now, Molly, don't be embarrassed. I don't have a problem with using protection. You, of all people, should know that I'm not a sheathophobic by the stash you saw in my bedroom drawer.”

“Judging by the supply in your bedroom drawer, I'd think you had Batman's rubber fetish, if I didn't already know you used them for water bombs,” she answered sardonically.

“Okay, okay. What do you want to talk about?”

“I want to know what turns you on.”

He sat bolt upright. “You
are
a reporter from the
International Intruder.
I had you pegged, right from the moment I laid eyes on you. That's why you know so much about Batman. You're one of those bloodsuckers, aren't you?”

“Mitch, I'm serious here. I really do want to know what turns you on.”

“What turns you on, Molly?” His voice was resonant with suggestion.

“Uh-uh. I asked you first.”

“You're absolutely certain you're not a reporter for the tabloids?” he inquired, making himself comfortable again on the sofa.

“Get real, Marlow. If I were a reporter for the tabloids, I'd hardly have stayed to baby-sit you. It's not exactly a walk in the park, you know. I would have only stayed long enough to get the information I wanted, then I'd have blown this Popsicle stand, as they say.”

“Then you only want to know for your own satisfaction what turns me on. Is that right?”

“Not exactly.”

“What, then?”

“I want to know for
your
satisfaction.”

“Hmm … I do like the sound of that. Okay, let's see. I guess I'd have to put, say … red hair—long, wild, sexy red hair—freckles, green eyes and curves at the top of my list as turn-ons. Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Don't patronize me, Mitch.”

“You've got it all wrong. You're thinking of the old Mitch Marlow.”

“The old Mitch Marlow?”

“Yeah, the wild, reckless, stupidly immature one. The one without culture or class. You know, Jerk face. What you're looking at now is the brand-new and much improved version.”

“I'm supposed to buy that?”

“Why not?”

“Because you're just playing a new role. A role you fancy for the moment, because you think you can make me buy it.”

“You know what you sound like, Red? You sound like a cynic. You're awfully young to be a cynic, don't you think?”

“I'm not a cynic. I'm a realist. If it walks like an actor and talks like an actor, then the odds are it's an actor.”

“Come on, Red, give me a break! I'm telling you I could fall in a big way for a woman like you with a mouth that doesn't quit.”

“Really? Is that what turns you on, Mitch…oral sex?”

“Why, you planning to talk me to orgasm?” he asked, baiting her again.

“Is that what you'd like?” Molly suggested, turning the tables.

“I'd like to see you do that.”

“You think I can't?”

“I don't know. How's your diet coming along?”

“My diet is going just fine, despite your childish efforts to sabotage it.”

He let her jab pass. “I'm glad to hear it. I have just one question for you.”

“What is it?”

“Have you cheated?”

“No,” she lied. Without skipping a beat, she turned the question on him. “And you? How is your campaign to quit smoking working out?”

“Fine. It's going fine.”

“Have you cheated?”

“No,” he lied.

Molly rubbed her hands on her bare thighs. “Sounds like what the two of us have here is a good, old-fashioned stalemate, wouldn't you say?”

“Sounds like,” he said agreeably. “Unless, of course, you
can
talk me to orgasm, in which case you'd be the one to win, hands down. No pun intended.”

“A bad pun, nonetheless,” she couldn't help noting.

“I'm waiting….”

“Okay, you're on. Without any help from you, I might add, I'm going to find out what turns you on.”

“Don't get in a snit about my not being more forthcoming, Red. It'll be more interesting for both of us if you have to find out what turns me on, don't you think?”

She ignored him for a minute as she plotted their game. “When I ask you for a word, just pick one at random. Some word that appeals to you, for whatever reason. Do you understand?”

“No, but I'll humor you.”

“Good. Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Enjoy it, because it isn't going to last.”

“It's not?”

“No. When I'm done with you, you're going to want a cigarette and you can't have one.”

“I'm waiting….”

“Okay, give me a word.”

“What kind of word?”

“An event word.”

“An event, huh?” Mitch thought for a moment, then gave her an eight-by-ten-glossy smile. “Wedding.”

Molly filled her mind with images, then began fashioning the fantasy. “It's a summer wedding.” “Is it raining?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“The wedding is taking place outside, in a garden with a wide expanse of lawn, fishes splashing in a lily pond, and rose beds in full bloom. A large tent has been set up for the buffet.”

“What kind of food?”

“What kind of food?” she repeated.

“Yeah, remember I'm blindfolded and I can't see.”

“It's an early wedding, so the caterers are preparing brunch: frittatas, brown-sugared bacon, scrambled eggs whipped with cream cheese, fresh berries in cream, butter- and cinnamon-drenched French toast and ambrosia punch.”

“Yeah, you're on a diet.”

“Shut up.”

“There are tables scattered on the lawn for the guests. Each table is festooned with ribbons, and there are candles and fresh bouquets of dewy, garden roses. The wedding is formal, so the tables are draped with soft pastel linens and set with delicate china, crystal and gleaming silver. Can you see it?” she asked the silent Mitch.

“Through a sort of silky haze,” he said dreamily, surprising her.

“The musicians have taken out their instruments and are tuning up, running through the song for the wedding ceremony,” she continued.

“What song are they playing?”

Molly couldn't believe how easily she'd gotten Mitch to participate, then it dawned on her that it was all part of being an actor. He needed details to visualize the scene. She couldn't admit that one song had been playing in her head, ever since she'd decided to have her way with him—a song of Cher's called, “Just like Jesse James.” There was nothing better to describe either Mitch's reputation as an outlaw lover or their current, cat-and-mouse situation.

Instead she plucked something from left field, a sexy, achy old Waylon Jennings standard. “How about ‘Can't Keep My Hands off of You'?”

He let out a low whistle. “Good golly, Miss Molly. You are one for getting to the point.”

Molly went on. “The bride is inside, putting on her white silk organdy hat, while the groom waits impatiently in the garden, a white tulip in the lapel of his black tuxedo.”

Mitch chuckled.

“What?” Molly asked, puzzled.

“An Irish setter just ran by and flopped into a flower bed to lick wedding-cake icing from his nose.”

“Mitch!”

“Don't holler at me! Holler at Rover!”

Molly shook her head and smiled, then picked up the thread of her fabrication. “Meanwhile … the bride is pulling on her gloves and picking up her bouquet of white tulips, getting ready to join the groom for a few moments before the guests begin to arrive.”

“What is the bride wearing?”

“Something simple, sophisticated … A lace jacket that buttons up over a cloud of full, silk organdy skirt.”

“I hope she doesn't have her beautiful red hair tucked up beneath the matching hat.”

“I didn't say anything about red hair.”

“Trust me. The bride has red hair, green eyes, and doesn't know her string of pearls is about to break.”

“Pearls…?”

“Keep up, Red, we're in the garden now.”

“The lilacs are blooming. Can you smell their fragrance?” she asked without skipping a beat. “Oh, but do you see what's by the ivy-covered wall?”

“You mean Rover, digging up the prize rosebushes?”

“No. The white canvas tent set up for the wedding feast. The caterers haven't arrived yet, so the tent is empty.”

“You can bet the groom has noticed the opportunity. What about the bride? Has the same thought occurred to her, or is she a bashful bride?” he teased.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I have an idea where she's leading the groom.”

“And where might that be?”

“Astray, one hopes. She
is
planning to lead him astray, isn't she?”

“Yes.”

“Finally. In that case, I have only one complaint, maybe two.”

“What's that?”

“One. What took her so long? Two. Has anyone ever died of biker shorts?” he asked, trying in vain to adjust his own. “Never mind, go on….”

Molly couldn't help the thrill of satisfaction she felt at the sight of his uncomfortable state. Heady with her success, she began turning up the heat.

“The bride and groom are now inside the tent, alone, not yet married, and with the tent flaps closed.”

“Scandalous. Go on….”

“I think it's time for you to give me another new word before I continue.”

“What sort of word?”

Molly thought for a moment. “A wedding word. Something bridal would be good.”

“Something bridal …” he mused, drumming his fingers on the sofa. “I've got it. Garter.”

Molly giggled. “Don't you think you're being a bit eager?”

“Hell, no! If you ask me, I think I've been bloody patient.”

“But what about the caterers and wedding guests? They could arrive at any moment, you know.”

“That's the thrill, isn't it? If I recall correctly, we did establish that this bride isn't bashful.”

“You do like your woman to be a bit of a tart, don't you?”

“What's not to like?”

“Oh, no!”

“What? What?” Mitch demanded.

“The groom has tucked his forefinger beneath the bride's strand of antique pearls and is pulling her close for a kiss, but the string has broken, scattering the pearls in the grass.”

“The groom broke the bride's necklace on purpose,” Mitch informed her.

“He did?”

Mitch nodded.

“What a cad!”

“Not really. He had a good reason.”

“You mean he bought a new necklace for the bride to wear?”

“Mercenary little thing, aren't we? As a matter of fact, he has. But right now he has something else on his mind.”

“The garter, right?”

“That and bartering the pearls he finds in the grass at their feet.”

“Bartering? For what?”

“Favors from the bride.”

“Let me guess. Sexual favors?”

“You catch on fast, Red.”

“What if the bride doesn't agree to the groom's blackmail?”

“She will.”

“But how do you know?”

“Easy. The bride's got a bit of a mercenary streak—she'd make a great agent—and the groom has just happened to let her glimpse the velvet, jewelry box in his tuxedo pocket.”

“How many pearls has the groom found?”

“Two,” he answered and smiled his wicked smile.

“Only two?”

“That's all the groom needs.”

“Really? It's a wonder the groom's ego fits inside the tent.”

“You don't like the groom.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what he asks for his two favors.”

“You tell me.”

“Okay, I will. One, he's pulled out a chair and asked the bride to sit on his lap.”

Molly moved to stand in front of Mitch.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Helping you get the picture,” she answered.

“The bride lifts her floaty, organdy skirt….” She

straddled his lap, shins resting on the sofa, on either side of him. “Mmm … those biker shorts are tight,” she observed as she rubbed herself against him.