Her Book Of Pleasure

Meg scanned the carpet in the dim light cast by the table lamp. Her panties weren’t under the crumpled comforter. She tiptoed to the bed, lifting the pillow next to Rick’s head. Not there. Short of stripping off the sheet and waking him, she couldn’t look anywhere else.

Commando it was. She took a few experimental steps, enjoying how the dress’s cool lining rubbed across her bottom and sent a shudder through her.

She’d miss Rick, had never expected to feel such a deep connection to a man she’d only known for a couple of hours. If only they’d met last summer before her disaster with Ethan, when she hadn’t been afraid to trust a man. At least she’d been able to drop her guard enough to enjoy herself with Rick.

She turned to gaze at him again as he slept, trying to memorize the breadth of his chest, the soft brownish-red hair that covered his hard muscles.

Who was she kidding? Everything about him was etched in her brain. Would he track her down? Would he even try? All she had to do was tell him her real name and phone number. Or tell Rey to pass her info along.

She shook her head. The ball was in his court now. If she didn’t hear from him, either he wasn’t interested or she’d console herself that he was a lousy investigator. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough on her plate right now with her career.

She closed the door and walked to the elevator barefoot, her sandals dangling from her fingers. The elevator opened and she got a 200-watt view of herself. If she did have cat’s eyes as Rick had said, they now belonged to the cat that had swallowed the canary.

Now she had to sneak into the dressing room and try to do something to wrestle her hair back into submission. She probably also smelled pretty strongly of Rick’s cologne. His face had gone some interesting places, she mused, noticing the exact spot in the lobby where she’d bumped into him for the first time. Had it only been a couple hours?

“Look who decided to show her face.” The cold Swedish accent grated on Meg. She turned slowly.

“Hello, Inga.” Play it casual and then run like hell. The big ones were usually slow on their feet.

The Amazonian blond bridesmaid curled her lip. “Rey’s been waiting for you. She said she wouldn’t toss the bouquet without her maid of honor.”

“Bouquet toss?” Meg felt sick. Her time with Rick had fried her brain, obliterating her promise to Rey in a gigantic blaze of lust.

“Let’s go.” Inga strode off, taking the steps to the ballroom two at a time, even in her long bridesmaid dress. Meg climbed the other side, not wanting to be crushed into a Swedish pancake if Inga slipped and fell backward.

Meg halted in the ballroom doorway. All the guests had retreated to the edge of the dance floor. Rey stood near the DJ’s equipment, casting anxious glances over her shoulder. She caught sight of Meg and beckoned to her. Meg crossed the empty dance floor, her bare feet dragging. Two hundred curious guests stared at her wrinkled dress and mussed hair. Her only consolation was that no one knew she’d left her panties in a suite upstairs.

“Where on earth have you been? And what happened to your hair?” Rey’s blue eyes widened. “Who was he?”

“He?” Meg hedged.

Rey leaned close. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re missing for over two hours and reappear looking like you rolled out of bed. Whose bed?” She craned her head to scan the male guests.

“Mrs. Flores?” The DJ stood behind her. Rey ignored him. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Flores, it’s time.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “He means you, Rey.”

“Oh.” Her friend giggled. “I guess I better get used to that.”

“We can do the bouquet toss now that your maid of honor is here.” The DJ eyeballed her and grinned, obviously coming to his own conclusions about her late arrival.

“Meg, you stand on the left. I’ll aim straight for you.” Rey pointed to a spot, and Meg slunk over to take her place with the other single women.

She found herself next to Rey’s other cousin Erika, a sweet-faced twenty-year-old with dark blond hair. Erika whispered, “Watch out for Inga. She’s been trying to get her live-in boyfriend to propose for over a year. When Rey told everybody that she wanted you to catch the bouquet, Inga got a nasty little gleam in her eye.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if I catch the bouquet.”

“You don’t understand.” Erika grabbed her forearm. “Seeing Rey get married to a hottie like Marco has pissed Inga off. Ruining the bouquet toss is her bit of revenge.”

Inga stood at the other end of the front row, glowering at them. Meg gave her a sugary smile.

“Be careful.” Erika melted into the second row.

Meg sighed and tossed her sandals on a nearby chair. She couldn’t let Rey’s jealous cousin spoil Rey’s plans. Widening her stance slightly, she balanced on the balls of her bare feet.

“Are we ready, ladies?” the DJ hollered over the mike.

A halfhearted cheer came from the crowd. The other women traded uneasy looks at the deadly vibes zinging between the messy maid of honor and the bitchy bridesmaid and faded from hair-pulling range.

Rey glanced over her shoulder to see where Meg stood. She turned to the DJ.

“One! Two!” By “Three!” Inga charged toward Meg like a Chicago Bears defensive linesman.

The bouquet arched over Rey’s head, aimed straight for Meg. With one eye on the flowers and the other on Inga, Meg centered her breathing. Inga was almost on top of her, obviously planning to body-check her into next week. Meg turned into Inga’s path and grabbed her green satin sash.

Before Meg could step aside and let Inga crash to the floor, Meg slipped on some spilled ice cubes and fell.

Letting the bigger woman’s momentum push them both down, Meg rolled onto her back and flipped Inga over her head. The big blonde landed with a thud, her mouth gaping open and closed like a giant koi out of water.

Meg leapt to her feet and walked to the battered clump of flowers. An eerie silence fell over the ballroom. She hefted the bouquet high over her head. The guests went crazy, clapping and cheering.

Rey hurried over and scolded her cousin in angry Swedish. Marco laughed so hard he wheezed and had to wipe a tear off his cheek. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. What was that, karate?”

“No.” Meg shrugged. “Judo. I studied with my mom’s older brother for years.”

“Black belt?”

“Only second degree.” Meg looked over at Inga, whose failure-to-commit boyfriend helped her to her feet. She figured that it was the blond guy from the elevator. “I never thought I’d need it at a wedding reception.”

The DJ announced the garter toss. “By tradition, the winner is the next man to get married. So come on up to get fitted for your ball and chain!”

Several men headed for the exits, only to be corralled by their dates. Despite the DJ’s smarmy cajoling, only two extremely natty men sauntered onto the dance floor. Meg took a closer look to see Rey’s painter friend Leo and his life-partner Steve. Oh, well. At least Leo or Steve would wear the garter at some social occasion.

“Aaaand…” The DJ smirked at the crowd. “The lucky winner gets to dance with the lovely winner of the bouquet toss!”

Shit, shit, shit! She’d forgotten about that part of this embarrassing tradition. Leo, Steve, please save me. But the dance floor filled with men. Men as old as her dad, men barely old enough to vote. Fair-haired men, dark-haired men, but none with wavy brown hair streaked with red and gold. Rick must still be asleep upstairs, dead to the world and fortunately, dead to her humiliation.

Burlesque music blared through the ballroom. Marco winked and tugged Rey to a beribboned chair. The horns played the infamous “stripper” song while Marco ducked his head under Rey’s skirt. She squealed and batted at his shoulders, her pale cheeks turning bright pink. After several boom-badda-boom repeats, Marco reappeared with his bride’s garter dangling from his teeth. He slingshot the blue lacy elastic into the crowd of guys.

Meg thought women played rough. But men who broke into hives at the idea of dating the same woman for more than three weeks were fighting over the garter as if she were Miss America, Miss November and Miss Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue all rolled into one. The thuds of fists on flesh and grunts of pain were audible even over the cheesy music.

The winner popped up from the melee and strutted over to her. The losers glared at him, flexing trampled fingers and stomped toes. One man was helped to his feet after a vicious kidney punch.

“Hi, I’m Pablo, and I can’t wait to dance with you.” He stood only a couple inches taller than she was, even with his lizard-skin cowboy boots.

“Hi, Pablo.” Would this torture ever end? The photographer snapped some gruesome photos. Slow, dreamy music oozed from the speakers and the garter-catcher pulled her against his chest.

Meg stared over his shoulder, determined to avoid eye contact at all costs. It didn’t work.