A Taste Of Fantasy

“So am I.” She grinned back at him and lifted her second beer in a private toast. To Samantha: on her way to moving on from Divorce Hell. To Jack Hunter: Swaggering Butthead and possible Man To Do.

She smiled as an absurd thought struck her. And to whatever and whoever he was doing tonight—Johnny Orion.

RICK DROVE HIS Jeep Cherokee into a space opposite Samantha’s driveway and shifted into park. Good. She was home safely. The guy in the bar hadn’t followed her. And she looked much happier than when she left. He’d driven by her house earlier in the evening, wanting to see the space she lived in, to get more of a feel of the kind of person she was, then driven to her office and followed her impulsively when he saw her come out of the garage. Then he’d followed her home—to make sure she was safe and because she enchanted him and he didn’t want to break the connection until he had to.

He turned on his car radio. An obnoxious pop song came on; he frowned and changed the station to WFMT. The noble music of Bach and Beethoven was better suited to thoughts of Samantha than some prepubescent boy band.

Tonight had been good. He’d approached her at P.J.’s when she first came in and sat at the bar, not to speak to her, to let her sense him. She had. He could tell by the way her body tensed, by the way she turned her head to see behind her. She was looking for him. Wanting him without even knowing she did. Then that guy had intervened. Jack, he called himself. That was okay. Rick was nothing if not patient. He’d had competition before. It complicated things, yes, but also made them more interesting.

Lights went on in her house, indicating that she’d gotten safely inside. The overture to Wagner’s Tann häuser swelled on his car radio as if celebrating that fact. Rick smiled at the glowing windows, at the glimpses of Samantha moving from room to room, closing the curtains. He felt like a Peeping Tom, but if ever there was a woman worth peeping at…

I am not to speak of you—I am to think of you When I sit alone or wake at night alone

I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

“To a Stranger,” by Walt Whitman. Maybe he should write the poem down and send it to her. She’d like it. But not yet. Sending notes was tricky, risky. If he sent them too soon, she might panic and think he was creepy. He’d know when the moment was right. And he needed to extricate himself from this mess with Tanya, his accuser, first, so Samantha would know he wasn’t some sleazeball. He’d simply miscalculated. He knew how to treat women; he loved and respected them. Tanya was the first one he’d ever read so wrong.

Whatever. Samantha would see his side. Then they could be together. For now, he’d keep up her sexual interest with the calls for Johnny. Then segue into the deeper, more powerful aspects of their inevitable relationship.

When the last fabric wall shut her away from him, he gave a long sigh, shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. After tonight, after interference by that Jack guy. Rick needed to pick up the pace, go into higher gear, find out that much sooner everything he could about her likes and dislikes, her passions and tastes and turnoffs. Difficult, yes, but he relished the challenge. Because he knew in the end he’d win.

He grinned and beeped his horn in an impulsive farewell salute as he sped down her block. Johnny Orion always got the girl.

3

From: Tess Norton

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Erin Thatcher

Subject: re: Readiness

YOU GO GIRL! You aren’t going to look pathetic, you’re going to look gorgeous and sexy and oh, so ripe. BE PICKY! You can have any man you want, and what you want is someone who can get it up and keep it up until you’re damn ready to call it a night. Check his feet, his hands, and if they’re short and stubby, move on. If they’re long and thick and his lips are perfect and his…oh, um, sorry. I was thinking about Dash. Here’s the bottom line, kiddo. This is a present to you. Don’t be stingy. Give it all you’ve got.

Love, Tess

P.S. I want DETAILS

From: Erin Thatcher

Sent: Friday

To: Samantha Tyler; Tess Norton

Subject: re: Readiness

Well, hell! It’s about time. And I gotta say it’s good to read a more upbeat you. And, no. You will not look pathetic. Available is one thing. Available is good. Available will have men flocking. And you’ll get to pick and choose your fantasy. If I hadn’t already found mine, I think I’d be totally envious! Don’t worry about right and perfect and all that relationship crap. Just go find a piece of body candy and spend the night smacking your lips. Oh, and make sure he smacks his!

Love you! Erin

Samantha finished reading the notes, grinned and launched into a new message. Details? She’d give them plenty.

From: Samantha Tyler

Sent: Saturday

To: Erin Thatcher; Tess Norton

Subject: Last Night!

I did it! I went! I met someone! (Is that like I came, I saw, I conquered?) He’s totally gorgeous and a Swaggering Butthead to boot. Thinks he’s brilliant and is obviously used to the chicks falling at his feet (okay, I was one of them, I couldn’t help it). He’s a photographer and he wants to photograph me one night next week. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more!

I feel so good! Like I’m coming out of a coma. I love this. I couldn’t fall for this guy in a million years. He’s perfect.

I’m so happy!

By the way, have you guys gotten into When Amber Burns, yet? Sheesh! No wonder I had sex on the brain. Which guy do you think Amber’s going to go for at the end, Adam or Mark—or both at once (ha!)?

Somewhat deliriously,

Samantha

Samantha hit the send button to blast the e-mail off to Erin and Tess, and spun her computer chair to face her home office, arms stretched blissfully wide, an entire Saturday at her disposal. In this mood, staying home doing work wasn’t going to cut it. She’d already begun investigating the latest sexual harassment case by interviewing Tanya Banyon, a temp employed by ManForce who brought charges against Rick Grindle. The woman had been convincing, certainly, but Samantha should spend the day preparing for her interview next week with the accused to get his side before she made any decisions.

Samantha rolled her eyes. Lighten up, woman. She’d done a million of these cases. Who needed to give up a Saturday afternoon preparing for the expected? She wanted to go out! She wanted to live! She wanted to…shop!

Frankly, her hot-night-out wardrobe was about five years old. She and Brendan had very sensibly dated for two years before they got married, and he’d made it clear she didn’t have to dress sexily to be sexy to him. At the time it had seemed so honest, so genuine, so beautiful. Until she recognized it as part of the pattern of suppressing her personality to please him.

God how insidious those little things became when you looked at them as part of the whole.

She liked getting dressed up. She liked wearing clothes that flattered her figure. Not like she was trampy. But if she felt good about her clothes and the way she looked, she felt good about herself. If that made her shallow and insecure, tough. She’d made friends with her flaws. At very least, they were loyal company.

Onward! She jumped up and grabbed her purse and keys.

Three hours later, she burst back in through her side door. Success! A black tiny-strapped skintight top with built-in bra, tight stretchy black jeans, and a clingy hot-pink sweater. She hadn’t felt this good in ages. Not only clothes, but she’d taken herself out to lunch and the cute guy in the next booth had flirted with her.

She danced into her kitchen, dumped the bags on a chair and grabbed her cell phone to check messages, so full of energy she very nearly got the urge to scrub the floor. This was serious. Maybe she should take some medication.

Her cell phone display showed one missed call; she crossed her fingers, imagining Jack’s deep voice, dialed up her voice mail and crossed to get her new clothes out of their bags, so she had something to do if it wasn’t him.

“Hello, Johnny Orion. It’s Kate. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Samantha froze. What was the deal with these women and their faulty dialing habits? And for Pete’s sake, how good could one man be?

“I worked all day to cook that dinner for you. But the look in your eye when you came in…God, I wasn’t hungry for food after that.”