Very Truly Sexy

Back to the column. Beth played the tape of Sara’s words, closed her eyes to picture Sara, so comfortable in her body, so easy with her sexuality. If Beth could just channel Sara, she would be fine.

Four hours later, she had a draft that held enough detail to be believable and was as refined as she could manage. She’d described the specifics of the experience vividly, but tastefully. She’d been frank, not vulgar; erotic, not graphic. Pleased with the result, she shot a courtesy copy to Sara and was just about to e-mail her draft to Will—early, to make sure she was on the right track—when her phone rang.

“Tell me you haven’t submitted this,” Sara said without preamble.

“I’m about to. Why?”

“I’m sorry, Beth, but you can’t use it.”

“What?”

Sara lowered her voice. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but Rick thinks it’s too personal.”

“You’re kidding. No way could anyone tell it’s him or you.”

“But we know, he says, and that’s enough.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were. Personally, I thought it was pretty hot. And, get this, now he wants us to only date each other.”

“But you don’t do exclusives,” Beth said, her brain struggling to absorb the bad news about her column. “What about ‘a pair and a spare’?” This was Sara’s dating philosophy: date two guys with another one in the wings…just to keep things interesting.

“I know, I know. But it’s kind of cute. He’s, like, zap, all protective and sentimental. About the tongue swirly thing, can you believe it? I said I’d try it for a while and see how it goes. If he goes weird on me—possessive and jealous—I’m outta there, of course.”

“I’m glad for you, Sara. I hope it works out.” She sighed, trying not to think about her nixed column.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Beth,” Sara said, reading her mind. “Maybe you could modify the column a tad? Snip out the detail?”

“The magic is the detail. Let me see…” She clicked open the file and scanned its contents. Removing all signature elements, she was left with a measly two paragraphs. “Without you two, I’ve got an introductory blurb. And a week to fix it.”

“You know the answer—go pick up a guy. Fresh is better than canned in more than spinach, you know.”

“Can you honestly see me doing that?”

“Yeah, if you don’t bring a book.”

“That was one time. And it was a great novel.” Sara was notoriously late and Beth had happened to have a paperback in her purse while she waited for her. Reading in a bar. Sara had never let her hear the end of it.

“You can do it, Beth. Wear something slinky and look friendly.”

“I’ll just fake the column, I guess. Fictionalize it.” She sighed. “Maybe add some statistics on favorite kinds of foreplay or something.”

“Statistics? Come on. Think what a great column it would make—Em really on the town…. Give it a try.”

“Nope. Not me.” When it came to picking up a man, Beth was as far from the coolly sophisticated Em as a virgin from a call girl.

She hung up and looked at her computer screen, the cursor pulsing like her own nervous heart. She pictured herself throwing on something slinky and marching into a bar, pickup radar pinging. No way. Not in a million years.

“THIS DOESN’T WORK for me, Beth,” Will told her, holding the printout of her revised-to-death column. He’d asked her to come in to talk it over. Not a good sign. “It’s too wooden, too cookbook. Like a kinder, gentler Cosmo anecdote.”

“Tell me what you really think,” she said glumly. The worst was, she knew he was right.

“Where’s the energy? The scrumptious detail that is Em’s trademark? Hell, your description of the wine is hotter than the bedroom stuff.”

“I had to change it at the last minute. I can do better.” Except her expertise was in reporting, observing and interpreting real experiences, not writing fiction.

Will grabbed a magazine from a pile on his desk— Man’s Man, she saw—the California-based cross between Esquire and Maxim whose parent company was about to take over Phoenix Rising. He opened it to a page he’d dog-eared, tapped it and turned it to her. “Man’s Man Gets Some” by Z. “This is what we want—our version of this Z writer.”

“This is a men’s magazine,” she said. “Phoenix Rising has women readers, too.” She tried to hand it back.

“Keep it for inspiration. Give me something I can work with, Em. We’re leaking readers all over the place. And women like to read about sex, too.”

She noticed deep worry creases in Will’s forehead and sweat rings staining his shirt. Something was worse than he was saying. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He sighed. “The thing is, the VP of Man’s Man editorial will be here next week to talk about the makeover. He’s going to reassign and refocus. The mantra at MM is edge, titillation, heat. I want to keep your column, but it’s got to deliver. You have to dazzle me—and him.”

“I’ll do my best,” she said, her stomach twisting with tension.

“I know you will,” he said. “You can do it. Just, I don’t know, make it more vivid, more fresh, more real.”

Vivid, fresh, real? Right. Her heart heavy, Beth read over the Man’s Man column as she headed out of the building. It was sex, sex, sex—no warmth, no class, no sensitivity.

This was lame. And gross. A bunch of phallo-centric drivel. Which was the last thing Phoenix Rising readers needed, no matter what the Man’s Man hatchet man wanted.

She could do better. She had to. She couldn’t fake it, though. Not and make it vivid, fresh and real. There was only one way to do what she needed to do.

On the sidewalk outside the building, she shoved the magazine under her arm and hit speed dial three on her cell.

“Hello?” Sara said.

“Tell me everything I need to know about picking up a man.”

“Really?”

“No. Wait. Make that meeting a man. Talking, flirting, getting to know him, all that. Oh, hell, just help me, Sara.”

2

ADAM RAFAEL JARVIS, AJ to friends, Rafe to the world, pushed into the hotel lobby, his work for the day done. Thank God. He ran his fingers through his hair, weary to his bones. He’d been as gentle as he could with the staff at Phoenix Rising, but he’d given them the reality check they needed. No point ducking facts when they came with negative dollar signs. The pub’s circulation was in the toilet and the Man’s Man formula was its only hope.

He’d done his best to minimize the pain. There would be changes—more salespeople, fewer columnists, less news, more features—but if everyone went along with what he’d laid out, no one would lose a job.

He enjoyed working with the managing editor, Will Connell, a savvy guy and seasoned editor. Still, the staff’s pale faces and the tension in the air had drained him. He was getting soft in his old age. He was only thirty-five, but lately, that felt old.

He needed a drink, so he angled off to the bar for a quick Scotch to ease the tension of the day.

He sat at the end of the bar, where he could check out the clientele—an old reporter habit—and ordered a Scotch rocks.

The place was busy with conventioneers—identifiable by their plastic name badges—and locals from nearby offices, wearing business clothes, drawn by the happy-hour prices, no doubt. There were a few unattached women, he noticed—a cluster near the bar and a few in booths.

One woman in particular caught his eye. Dressed to kill in a clingy blue dress, she moved toward the restroom alcove with a determined stride, but wobbled in her heels, like a kid wearing her mother’s pumps. Driven, but shaky. Hmm.

Great curves, firm-looking breasts, her hair swept up in a style that invited a man’s hands, but as she passed, he saw it was held in place by a barrette in the shape of a cartoon kitty.

A hot babe with a child’s heart? Interesting contradiction. And a great ass, he saw, as she disappeared from view.

He turned his attention to a guy flirting sheepishly with three women at a booth. He was either married or their boss. Rafe would love to get close enough to eavesdrop and verify his hunch. He smiled at himself. More knee-jerk reporter stuff. He was obviously bored.

He took a drink, welcoming the smoky burn. He liked travel, liked visiting the other MM properties, liked making his mark on the magazines they snapped up. But the rest of his job was getting predictable and he was tired of charity events, stakeholder meetings and advertising revenue reports.

Strangely enough, he found he missed journalism. He’d been thinking a lot about his days at the Miami Tribune, where he’d been the lead reporter on an investigative project about funeral companies. He’d dug through piles of records, coaxed reluctant bureaucrats to spill, uncovered the kernel of the crime and then helped write the series that sparked an over-haul of the industry, new legislation and a Pulitzer nomination.

The work had been rewarding, but at the time, he hadn’t realized how much it meant to him. He’d been a restless guy in his twenties. A couple of feature assignments further raised his profile, and he’d gotten an offer at Man’s Man as a feature writer. The money was great and he liked the Bay area. Before long, he’d moved into editing, a new challenge, and then into management as a vice president.

Where he now felt stuck. He’d made his choices, though. The publisher counted on him. Maybe he was just going through a restless period that would pass.

He’d spend one more day in Phoenix, during which he’d go over details with Will and talk to the last writer—E.M. Samuels, the entertainment columnist, who was coming to the magazine offices for her check and mail.

He wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. The woman’s work epitomized what was wrong with the pub. She reported on food, wine and clubs with a sort of Town and Country flavor that was passé for the target demographic—and the times. Connell, who seemed protective of her, wanted to keep her on as a feature writer because she had a flair for words and lots of talent. Rafe was willing to offer her that option, but she would have to leave the column behind.

If only she wouldn’t cry. Her genteel writing made her seem the type who might. He hated making women cry. Which was why he steered clear of any female who even hinted at getting serious.

Actually, he’d steered clear of all women lately. He took another swallow of Scotch, not allowing himself to think about what that meant, focusing instead on the changes at Phoenix Rising.

Until Will could find someone with the right spice to take Em Samuels’s place, Rafe would have the “Man’s Man Gets Some” columnist, Zack Walker, do a few guest pieces.

In two days, he’d be back in the home office in San Francisco. Just in time for a big shareholders’ meeting, followed by a charity golf tournament and a week of work on a strategic business plan. Truly tedious and deadly dull.

Unlike the woman with the kitty-cat barrette, who’d emerged from the bathroom. She caught his gaze, smiled a smile that lit her eyes, then flew past, as if afraid he might speak to her.

He felt the urge to do that—just to get the scoop on that barrette—but she lighted at a table with a morose guy. No doubt the boyfriend, though how he could look so glum with a dish like her in his grasp was a mystery to Rafe.

She said something to the guy, who answered, then grinned, stood and hurried away. Had she sent him on an errand? She smiled him off, then her shoulders slumped. She’d been faking her cheer?

She got up from the booth, seemed to hesitate, then moved toward the rest rooms again. She didn’t even glance at Rafe this time—too busy fishing a phone out of her handbag. He shifted so he could watch her—and listen.

“Sara?” she said, standing in the alcove, one hand over her ear. “Except for the drinks, this was a complete bust…. What?… I did meet a guy. Yes. Except it turns out he just had a fight with his girlfriend…. Yeah. See what I mean? It’s hopeless… What do you think? Of course I helped him. Plus, I suggested a gift. Roses are on sale at that shop on Central, and if he puts them in a vase from the final clearance table at Osco’s, he’ll have a sixty-dollar gift for less than thirty…. What?… I was not sabotaging myself. The point is that I cannot do this…. I do too want to get laid!”

She covered her mouth, chagrined, and looked up—not in Rafe’s direction, thankfully, because she’d have seen him practically choke on his drink in reaction to her words.

Had her friend dared her to pick up a guy? And she’d zeroed in on a loser on the rebound? He shook his head, amused, and listened harder.

“I’m not the kind of woman men pick up,” she continued. “I’m the kind they ask for advice about their girlfriends. I’m going home. What else can I do?… I know…. I know what I said. Yes, I know it will be good for me.” She chewed her lip, listened to her friend. “Okay, okay. I’ll try one more guy.”

She hung up and walked slowly down the length of the bar toward her booth.

One more guy, huh? To have sex with? Hmm. Could it be him? The possibility gave Rafe a charge he hadn’t felt in a long time. The woman had a girl-next-door freshness with an undercurrent of hot babe he wouldn’t mind tapping into.

How to approach her? He noticed that a ballpoint pen lay on the floor beside her table. It was a place to start. He eased off the bar stool and headed her way. He’d get the story on that barrette, one way or another. And maybe a whole lot more.

“IS THIS YOURS?” THE HUNK who had smiled at Beth on her way back from the rest room extended a pen in her direction.

“Uh, no. Not mine. Maybe the waitress’s?” She pointed to where the woman stood.

He smiled down at her, confident and handsome, his eyes a fierce blue. “Mind if I wait for her?” He seemed to be teasing her.

With a jolt, she realized the pen and the waitress had been a conversational ploy. He wanted to join her. “Oh. Sure. Have a seat.” What luck.

He sat and reached to shake her hand. “I’m AJ.”

“Beth.” His grip was firm but not overwhelming, and his hand was extremely warm. That was the reason Sara’d had sex with Rick—high body temperature. So insane. But it’s just sex, Sara would say, not the meaning of life.

Beth watched as her new companion sized her up in a masculine way. Unsettling, but pleasant. Flattering, really.

There was an edge to his face—he had a square jaw, a straight, strong nose and an intense, almost hard expression—but his broad mouth, easy with a smile, softened the effect.

His most dramatic features were his eyes—blue and sharp-edged as shattered glass, but there was humor and intelligence in their depths and wry crinkles at the edges.

Just as the mutual appraisal began to seem unnaturally long, the waitress breezed over. “What can I get you?” she asked AJ, smiling down at him more broadly than she had with Beth.

“What are you drinking?” he asked, indicating Beth’s nearly empty martini glass.

“Tutti-Frutti Martooti,” she said, the name sounding more foolish than it had when she’d selected it. She’d come to Grins for its specialty drinks for her sidebar on the top ten froufrou cocktails. Oh, and to meet a man.

“Want another one?” AJ asked, looking doubtful.

“I should try something else.” She grabbed the drink menu. “I can’t decide between the Licorice Twist and the Hot Cha-Cha. Will you try one for me?”

“Sorry,” he said, lifting a brow as if she’d asked a crazy question. “Scotch rocks, please,” he said to the waitress as though they were old friends.

“You got it,” she said, winking at him. Brother. The woman was either aiming for a big tip or an after-shift date. She made it seem effortless.

“I’ll have the Licorice Twist,” Beth said.

“Sure.” The waitress wrote it down, then gave AJ a departing smile.

“The pen,” Beth said to AJ.

“I think you dropped this,” he said to the waitress, holding out the pen.

She accepted it, her fingers lingering on his. “Thanks for watching out for me.” So obvious.

“My pleasure,” AJ said, flirting back.

Some people could flirt as easily as breathe. Not Beth. Sara had given her tips, but they’d flown out of her brain the minute this man dropped into her lap—well, booth.

Her stomach tightened. She felt as though she was in over her head. She didn’t have to actually sleep with him, or anything. They would just chat, joke around, maybe get friendly enough to kiss. Just enough to make her column sparkle. Sara, of course, would go for sex. He had warm hands, after all. What about Em? What would Em do?

She was about to find out.

“So what brings you here?” AJ asked her, leaning closer on crossed arms, his scuffed leather bomber jacket creaking deliciously.

I’m picking up a man. You interested? “Just getting out…sampling some cocktails,” she said, lifting her empty Martooti glass.

“Sorry I couldn’t help. Tiki drinks threaten my masculinity.”

She smiled. “I can’t imagine anything doing that.” Not bad. Something was giving her the courage to stretch a bit—either the warmth of his expression or her determination to extract a column out of this at any cost.

“So I seem too macho to you?”

“No. Just very male.” The candlelight polished his blond hair and gleamed on the leather of his jacket. Underneath, he wore a V-neck silk knit shirt in a rich brick red. The contrast of leather and silk begged to be touched. So did the muscles swelling under the shirt, pulled taut by his position.

“I think I have a feminine side in here somewhere.” He pretended to pat his jacket pockets, then shrugged. “Hopefully, it’ll show up when I need it.”

“And when might that be?”

“When a woman wants to know what I’m feeling inside.” He shuddered in pretend dismay.

“I’ll try not to pry.”

He wasn’t really joking, she could tell. For all his friendliness, there was a guardedness about him. His piercing eyes, warm on her now, still managed to say, Don’t get close. “So what do you do, Beth?” he asked.

“I’m a technical writer.” That was one of her jobs, anyway. Sex columnist working on her first article would change the entire flavor of the encounter. She never revealed her identity when she reviewed venues, so why start now? With her nondescript appearance and subtle research techniques, she slipped in and out of hot spots like a ghost with taste.

“That sounds interesting.”

She laughed. “You’re too kind. It sounds boring, but it’s fascinating to me. I like the challenge of turning engineering jargon into something ordinary people can grasp.”

“Having once assembled a stereo system, I salute you. Do you have an engineering background?”

“Not really. My degree is in English, but I took lots of math and science.”

The waitress arrived with their drinks and after she left, AJ lifted his Scotch in a toast. “To tiki drinks and talking,” he said, studying her over his glass.

Something hot vibrated along her nerves, connecting between her legs, which she nervously crossed. They were only discussing cocktails and technical writing, but she felt on the brink of something thrilling. And scary.

Raising her Licorice Twist in its tall glass, she said, “To getting to know each other.” And more?

Only if she dared. And if he was interested, of course.

The proportions of anise and chocolate in her drink were off, and the liqueur was a cheap one, so the effect was sickeningly sweet without an alcohol bite. She mentally crossed Licorice Twist off her top ten list. That part of her column was moving along. For the rest of it, the important part, she should say something flirty, but she settled for the predictable. “And how about you? What brings you to Grins?”

“I’m staying here, in the hotel.”

“Where are you from?”

“San Francisco.”

“And you’re here on business?” He nodded and something flickered in his eyes, some discomfort, but she asked the next question anyway. “And what work do you do?”

“I’m a transition expert. I help, uh, reorganize companies, redeploy staff, all that.”

“Far more interesting than technical writing.”

“It hasn’t been much fun today and I actually dropped in here to stop thinking about it.” He lifted his glass as proof.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She’d been practically grilling the man. Any second she’d ask for his social security number so she could run his prints.

“Let’s just stick with keeping each other company.” He tapped his drink against her glass and studied her again. “That’s what I find interesting.”

“Okay. Sure.” She had to look away, uncomfortable with how closely he was looking at her with those laser blues. But part of her liked it. The tingling between her legs intensified. She could see that if a woman went with certain impulses, she could end up in bed with a man like AJ with no effort at all. Some women, anyway.

“Actually, you caught my interest just walking across the room a while ago,” AJ said.

“Really?” That might be a line, but there was something so direct about AJ that she was sure there was more to it. He had looked intrigued when he’d caught her gaze near the rest rooms. “How so?”

“You seemed, I don’t know, contradictory.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re dressed very hot, but you’re unsteady in your heels and you’ve got a little-kid barrette in your hair.”

“Oh.” Her hand flew to touch the Hello Kitty clasp she’d borrowed from her neighbor’s daughter to hold her hair up. “I borrowed this. And I’m just getting used to new shoes.” The truth was that she never wore heels. AJ had seen right through to her inner librarian.

“Don’t apologize. The contradictions suit you.”

His scrutiny and flattery unnerved her, so she decided to joke away the feeling. “Excellent. I’m completely charmed. And what’s my line? ‘No one’s ever noticed that about me before’?”

“You’re catching on,” he said, but a flicker in his eyes told her she’d hurt his feelings.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m not good at this.”

“At what?”

“You know. Snappy repartee, flirting, all that. I prefer to be more direct. I like people to say what they mean.”

“Me, too.”

“But you’re good at the other. You were great with the waitress, and that dropped-pen bit with me was very fresh.”

“I guess that’s a compliment?”

“Absolutely. I’m just interested in how this all works.”

“Why is that?”

She couldn’t exactly answer that, but she could come close. And get some data on the male point of view on dating. If she wasn’t going to sleep with the guy, she could at least interview him. “The thing is, I haven’t dated in a while. I’m kind of, well, rusty. So, I have questions about the whole process.”

“You haven’t dated for a while, huh?”

“No. I was in a relationship that ended. And I’ve been out of, um, circulation for quite a while.”

“Our loss, I would say. Speaking for men in general.”

“Thanks. So, can I ask you about how all this works?”

He seemed amused by her question. “It’s not like I’m an expert, but ask away.”

“Great.” She wiggled into her seat, feeling better wearing her reporter hat. “Here goes. How do you decide what to say first when you want to meet a woman?”

He shrugged. “It depends on the woman and the situation.”

“No tired lines, right, like, ‘Did it hurt much when you fell out of heaven’?”

“Hell, no. That’s for amateurs.” He winked, clearly teasing her. “The first line is just to break the ice. It should be funny or intriguing and certainly not sexual.”

“Too offensive, right?”

“Exactly. And the first line isn’t make-or-break. It’s the second line that counts. By the second line, you’ve got a conversation on your hands.”

“Oh, very true.” She wished she could flip on her tape recorder, or at least take notes. “So, how do you figure out what to talk about in that conversation?”

“It varies. Say I’m at the airport and I see a woman I want to get to know. I might ask her about the book she’s reading, or how she likes her laptop, whatever seems natural. Assuming I’m not intruding. You pick up the vibe if someone would rather enjoy her privacy than talk.”