Authors: Jennifer Greene
Pink Satin
Pink Satin
By Jennifer Greene
With the figure of a sex symbol and a career as a lingerie executive, Greer Lothrop is used to attracting more than her fair share of male attention. After years of unwanted stares, she is far more comfortable playing mother hen than femme fatale.
She’s shocked when there’s nothing motherly about the feelings her new neighbor, engineer Ryan McCullough, arouses in her. She’s never been attracted to a man of such raw sexuality before. What is it about Ryan that has her confiding in him—and falling into his arms—within hours of meeting?
It’s clear Ryan isn’t interested in Greer for her chicken soup. He’s not falling for her girl-next-door routine either, no matter how hard she tries to deny their chemistry. He knows there’s a passionate woman behind the facade—and he knows just how to awaken her…
Previously Published.
Dear Reader,
I loved creating Greer. Unlike me, she was busty and voluptuous, what some used to call a bombshell. Her appearance gave me the opportunity to work with the unique vulnerabilities and needs of a sensitive woman. Greer developed early, and to protect herself from predator-guys who were only interested in her sexy appearance, she developed a maternal persona. She IS maternal. A soup and cookie maker. A consoler, a source of warm hugs, rather than hot kisses.
She works in the field of sexy lingerie, but her coworkers have stopped thinking of her as particularly female—she’s become that good at hiding her vulnerable, feminine side. Her behavior has encouraged men to treat her as a motherly type, and that’s worked really well for her—until McCullough moves next door.
Carina offered me the chance to bring this story back to readers. I’m so glad to share it with you. It was one of my first books…yet I hope you find the story reflects a core theme in romances. Isn’t it one of our eternal fantasies—for a woman to throw off her inhibitions and fears, and to reach for the woman she really wants to be?
Hope you enjoy the story!
Feel free to contact me at www.jennifergreene.com or through my Jennifer Greene author page on Facebook.
Jennifer Greene
With a lazy yawn, Greer leaned over and peered through the window of the oven. Filet mignon would have been nice, but in a pinch she’d settle for Lean Cuisine.
Straightening, she unbuttoned her salmon crepe blouse and slipped it off, draping it over the nearest kitchen chair. She was broiling. Either her apartment’s new temperature-control system was playing games again, or North Carolina’s April heat had managed to seep inside, even this late in the afternoon.
Twisting the oven dial to Warm, she wandered back to her bedroom with one hand on the side zipper of her cream-colored A-line skirt. In a moment, the linen garment was gracing the bright tulip pattern of her comforter.
Pick it up, Greer.
She not only picked up the skirt but hung it up as well, feeling abnormally virtuous. The feeling was rare and didn’t last long. Once she’d peeled off her stockings, she let them lie exactly where they fell on the poppy-red carpet. One could be good for only so long. Her workday had been both long and unusually tedious.
Halfway to the closet for her white cotton robe, Greer caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dresser mirror. There was nothing strictly wrong with the chartreuse slip she was wearing…except that one required sunglasses to appreciate its fluorescent brilliance. Her dresser drawers were full of expensive lingerie with equally minor flaws—sort of a fringe benefit of working for Love Lace.
The flamboyant satin slip cupped a well-developed pair of breasts, pinched in for a minuscule waist, and then swayed alluringly over rounded hips and long, slim legs. There was no excess fat, just luxuriant curves that would have made a calendar photographer deliriously happy. Greer, as usual, scrunched up her nose at the reflection in passing.
If she’d had her choice, she would have been flat-chested and tiny. If Greer’s mother had had the choice, her daughter would have had the poise and presence of a svelte Greer Garson. Neither had had her choice.
Nature had endowed her with a voluptuous body and a certain shyness—an unfortunate combination, in Greer’s view. As a teenager, she’d been avidly pursued by more than her share of hormone-happy boys. Other girls had envied her; Greer had suffered a lot from mortification. If the boys had just looked above her neck, they might have noticed she was simply an average nice-looking girl, with myopic but sensitive big brown eyes and a mop of untamably curly hair. But boys that age weren’t too interested in anything above a girl’s neck.
She’d discovered since that middle-aged “boys” still looked below the neck first. Living out her days as a sex symbol didn’t hold much appeal for Greer. Actually, it held none. So by the age of twenty-seven she had a degree in psychology behind her and had perfected the fine art of survival. Men and Greer coexisted just fine these days.
Slipping into an ancient cotton robe, she padded barefoot back through the living room.
“Down,”
she called automatically as she picked up a magazine.
Truce was perched on a curtain rod. The tiger-striped feline peered down at Greer with limpid yellow eyes.
“Down, and this time I mean it,” Greer warned. “You know what you did to the curtains last time.”
The cat ignored her. Greer sighed. Way back, when she had first adopted Truce, he had mounted an assault on all climbable things.
Then
Greer had had high hopes that they could reach an amicable agreement—hence the name Truce.
Now,
Greer understood that cats loved outright war because they always won.
Experienced in the fine art of guerrilla warfare, Greer wandered past the blue-and-white flowered couch and the mountainous pile of mail on the desk to the window, where she leafed absently through the pages of
Psychology Today.
Presently, the cat leaped down onto Greer’s shoulders and curled himself around her neck with a thunderous purr.
Reading as she walked, Greer aimed for the kitchen, automatically groping for a knife and fork in the silverware drawer, then pouring herself a glass of milk. Bending down, she filled Truce’s bowl with cat food. The cat continued to wave his long tiger tail in Greer’s face, unmoved by the sight of his dinner. “I’m out of gourmet brand and I’m not going to the store until tomorrow,” Greer said firmly. “You haven’t even tried this. It’s tuna fish.”
Truce licked her ear.
“Mmm,” Greer coaxed, mimicking a sound of ravenous hunger.
Truce waved his tail.
“All normal cats like seafood,” Greer informed him. Truce popped down to the floor and sauntered over to the counter by her purse, clearly expecting his mistress to race to the store immediately for his favorite brand of cat food.
“Whatever happened to gratitude? Can’t you even
try
to remember that you were a mangy, starving orphan a few months ago?” Pulling open the oven door, she reached in with pot holders for her dinner. Lasagna.
The phone rang in the living room. A shock wave shivered down Greer’s spine; she dropped a pot holder, burned her finger and turned pale, all in the space of a second. The phone rang again. Nursing her burned finger in her mouth, Greer closed the oven door with a snap and felt her heart suddenly ticking like a time bomb.
On the third ring, she took her finger out of her mouth and starting shaking it, her steps joltingly stiff as she walked to the telephone. Inches away from the receiver, her hand suddenly turned independent, refusing to pick it up. Insistently, the telephone rang again.
Taking in a huge lungful of air, Greer grabbed it. “Hello,” she rasped.
On the other end there was nothing. Just…breathing.
Greer’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “Hello?” she repeated, louder this time.
More breathing. Basically normal breathing. Two weeks ago, her caller had had a cold, and his breathing had carried a wheeze. Greer had suggested he take a cold capsule, because back then she’d still been trying to deal with her crank caller with humor and patience. Sometime in the interim, all of Greer’s normally irrepressible humor had deserted ship.
Well aware her fingers were trembling, she dropped the receiver back into its cradle. Her small apartment, so chock-f of cheery colors and familiar things, suddenly seemed to close in on her. The walls echoed silence and a forbidding emptiness. Fear licked along her bloodstream.
Look. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ve been through all this before…
Yes. Rationally, Greer gathered up Truce, her silverware and her TV dinner in organized fashion. Then, irrationally, she fled out her apartment door.
The hall was deserted, just one harmless front door and four equally harmless steps leading up to the two first-floor apartments. When Mrs. Wissler lived next door, Greer had generally taken sanctuary in her neighbor’s kitchen after one of her telephone calls and stayed there until the shaky feeling passed. Unfortunately, Mrs. Wissler had moved three weeks before. Except for Greer, the whole building was deserted. The two single men in the upstairs apartments were rarely home on a Friday night.
She didn’t need anyone to hold her hand anyway. What good was a degree in psychology if it didn’t help you deal with a simple problem in a logical, rational manner?
Still mentally scolding herself, Greer settled on the third step, folded open the foil covering on her dinner and tucked her white robe around her legs. She was just putting the first bite of lasagna into her mouth when the front door flew open. Her fork stayed suspended in midair.
The man was a rapid blur of yellow hard hat and short sleeves and grocery bag. Greer caught only a quick glimpse of tanned square face and blue eyes before he turned rapidly. Unfortunately, Truce chose that instant to leap at him from the steps. The stranger couldn’t see over his grocery bag, and the next thing Greer knew, an orange had settled on her lap, a head of lettuce was sitting next to her, the hard hat was on its last bounce at the door, and a most irritated man was draped half on her legs, half on the stairs.
“Good Lord. Are you all right?” Greer exclaimed.
Very blue, very furious eyes squinted dazedly in her direction. “Is that your cat?”
There was a time and a place for honesty. This really didn’t seem to be it. Declining to answer, Greer lowered her eyes, rapidly set down her lasagna and scrambled to pick up the lettuce and orange. “I’ll take care of all this. Are you hurt?”
“No.” He spat out the word with all the friendliness of a guard dog.
He was definitely irritated, but Greer didn’t mind. Even hostile company was welcome after one of her phone calls. And she was honestly fascinated by refilling the man’s grocery bag. People revealed so much about themselves by what they bought at the grocery store. This man was clearly a bachelor who was going to die soon of malnutrition. Oranges, lettuce, beer, three containers of cashews, apples and two packages of Oreos. The Oreos were the worse for wear after their tumble. “I’ll replace these,” she said seriously as she turned back to him.
“Just…” He grabbed the bag from her and set it safely next to the apartment door opposite Greer’s. Out of harm’s way,
said his body language.
Her lips twitched. “Honestly, I’m sorry,” she said gravely.
“You usually eat your dinner sitting on the stairs in the hall?” he growled.
“Not…exactly.”
“You just happened to pick tonight.”
“Not…exactly.”
“And Battle Cat—is it
exactly
yours?”
“Truce?” Greer glanced down at the feline who was winding in and around her bare legs. “You have to be kidding. I’ve never seen that animal before in my life.”
He was silent for a minute, and when Greer peeked she could see a grin sneaking up on the corners of his mouth. And he was staring at her. Leaning back against the opposite wall, the stranger was clearly catching his breath, but at the same time his eyes were busy wandering over her legs—which she instantly tucked together—and then at the sexy hint of chartreuse satin slip—which she hurriedly buried under the lapels of her robe.
Her attempts to hide her figure were by long habit quick; the stranger’s eyes were quicker. They settled on her oval face, the frame of bouncing nut-brown hair, the straight nose with three freckles, the untannable cream of her complexion, and her eyes—and by the time his eyes met hers, she had the sudden inexplicable urge to fidget.
It wasn’t wearing only a robe that bothered her, or even that he checked out her figure. Men inevitably checked out her curves on first meeting, but few,
very
few, spent more time looking at her face. Regardless, fidgeting wasn’t her thing. Sensibly, Greer plopped back down on the step and picked up her fork and TV dinner.
“I take it you’re my neighbor—unless you regularly wander through strange apartment buildings finding halls to eat your dinner in?” There was an ultrapatient quality in his low-pitched voice, as if he’d already resigned himself to sharing the building with a kook.
“You should never sign a lease until you know the people you’re going to live across from,” Greer said gravely. “Anyway, it’s not the way it looks.”
“No?”
“No. It’s the crank calls. Not that my reaction to them is in any way rational. I admit that my behavior is ridiculous.” Greer forked in another, small mouthful of lasagna. “Can’t help it, though,” she admitted. “In the beginning, it wasn’t so bad. Actually, I thought it was kind of funny. He was nice. Honestly. I mean, he never called in the middle of the night, and one time when I told him I had company, he laid off for three days—”
“Wait a minute.” Her stranger took a breath and then sank down on the top step, lazily stretching out long, denim-clad legs as if resting up for a siege. “Go on,” he said politely and cleared his throat. “I must have missed the transition. Like the whole relationship between eating dinner in a hallway and receiving crank calls. Never mind. You were telling me that your obscene caller didn’t phone for a few days?”
“He isn’t an
obscene
caller. He’s just a breather.”
“I see.”
“Which is why it’s so ridiculous to get upset. He doesn’t say or do anything terrible. And I thought I’d get rid of him when I had my telephone number changed, but no such luck. Anyway, I would hardly have been out here in the hall if I’d thought anyone was going to be around.” Greer dropped her fork, rubbed her palm on the thigh of her robe and whipped out her hand with a determinedly friendly smile. “Greer here. Mostly because my mother was a frustrated actress. Lothrup’s the last name. And you’re…?”
“Becoming rapidly exhausted,” he said flatly. His palm enclosed hers. His hand was very warm, very callused, and he withdrew it very, very quickly.
Greer repressed a smile. The fury had clearly left his eyes, and a deliriously wicked twinkle had replaced it. Well. An exasperated twinkle perhaps, but there was humor in there somewhere. “I really am a very good neighbor,” she assured him gravely. “You can ask the guys upstairs. I mean, your business is your business. I pick up mail and water plants, when people are on vacation. Deliver chicken soup when someone has a cold. Generally keep the cat I’ve never seen in my life out of sight. In a pinch, I’m not opposed to sewing on a button. Not to imply that men aren’t fully capable…”
She had to stop for breath, which was probably just as well since she seemed to be chattering like a nervous mynah bird. Most people found Greer reserved on first meeting. But then, most people didn’t meet her after one of her confrontations with The Breather. And whether the stranger meant to or not, he was winning an awful lot of brownie points by keeping his attention above her neck while they talked.
There was a dance of amusement in his eyes as he motioned for her to continue eating. “I get the message,” he said gravely, “but somehow I have trouble picturing you in the role of resident housemother.”
Wrong, sweetie, Greer thought with amusement. Other men had made the same mistake, and Greer had no doubts she could set her new neighbor straight in time. Figure or no figure, the femme fatale role just wasn’t her scene. Eye shadow looked clownish on her; she wasn’t about to mask her freckles with makeup; and over the years she’d learned that even the most ruthless predators didn’t make passes at mother figures. The defense mechanism had evolved naturally. Greer liked taking care of people, and that included men.