Shockingly Sensual Page 2

  The sound engineer in the control room cued suggestive boom-shaka-boom-shaka-boom music to accompany Callie’s titillating tale.

  “Our courtesan finds the stable man stripped naked to the waist, tossing fresh hay into the horse stalls. He takes one long look at her and his eyes widen with nervousness as his manhood hardens with pure, unadulterated lust. He knows this is wrong, but he can’t stop his body’s reaction.”

  Boom-shaka-boom-shaka-boom.

  Luke squirmed. Too much. Too much. Too much. Unnerved, he ached to reach over and snap off the radio, but his fingers refused to unfurl themselves from the clenched fists resting solidly against his tensed thighs.

  He was in that barn.

  He was that weak-kneed liveryman, and in his mind, the saucy courtesan was none other than the shocking Callie Ryder.

  His blood pumped in his ears, pumped through his veins, pumped, pumped in his groin.

  Pump, pump, pump.

  “She steps across the wooden floor.”

  Creaking noises issued from the sound engineer’s mixing board. Creak, creak, creak.

  “And she reaches out to trace her fingers over the lines and planes of his hard, sweaty chest. The room smells of leather and man and hay and horses,” Callie said huskily. “Her bosom heaves. Her blood is boiling. Her passion erupting with stark, feral need.”

  Luke could see the entire scene as sharply as if he were watching a film. Startled, he realized Callie was getting off on the fantasy of mentoring an inexperienced lover, just as he was getting off on the idea of being tutored by a lusty, knowledgeable woman.

  “And then they are making love, tearing off each other’s clothes. Making, molding, melting, squeezing, slapping, sucking life into their bodies. Feeling the richness of their souls as they become one. Joined, melded, fused.” Callie was almost panting as she breathed the final word.

  Sweet, sweet, sweet.

  He visualized it all. The courtesan, the stable man. She was her and he was him and they were in a sweaty tangle of arms and legs and lips and skin.

  Luke gulped, battling back his arousal. Stop thinking about sex!

  But he could not.

  The more he tried to stop, the clearer he saw her. Her firm high breasts, her luscious lips, her long lean legs.

  Luke clamped his mouth closed and shifted uncomfortably. The caller from Queens could have been speaking about him. While he wasn’t a virgin, he wasn’t exactly notching bedposts, either. He’d been so focused on his work in Limbasa there had never been much time or opportunity for romance.

  Even when he’d taken R and R in Italy and Switzerland, Luke had avoided sexual encounters. He knew it wouldn’t have been fair to either himself or a potential partner to get involved in a long-distance relationship. And he had simply never been the kind of guy who went in for sex whenever and wherever. He just didn’t see the point.

  So he’d waited.

  And waited.

  Maybe a lot of men wouldn’t understand his patience, but Luke had always sensed that when the right woman came along, he would know it.

  Turning his head, he stared out the window at the crush of heavy foot traffic and faked like he wasn’t listening to the radio program. Having grown up in two distinctly different countries, he never felt as if he belonged to either one. Too liberated for Limbasa, too inhibited for America. For most of his life he’d felt as if he was on the outside looking in. A misfit.

  It was eleven-thirty on a Friday night and Broadway was awash in an eclectic assortment of people. From well-dressed theatergoers trying to grab a taxi. To the hip young party crowd on the prowl. To swing-shift workers hitting the clubs for a nightcap before going home. The city throbbed with energy.

  But it was a different kind of energy than Luke was used to and nothing was making that clearer than the sassy female deejay.

  In desperation, he scanned the crowd on the street again, searching for something, anything to derail his irrational train of thought. His military preparation had given him an acute eye for detail. He noticed things most people would miss. In the throng, he spotted a woman as she exited a bar. She had her purse slung casually over her shoulder. The clasp was not secured and it flapped open with each step she took.

  A lanky teen with bad skin pushed away from the side of the building where he’d been leaning and loped after her.

  The kid is going to steal her purse.

  The thought ran through Luke’s head and he didn’t question it. Life in Limbasa had taught him to trust his gut instincts. His intuition had saved the day on more than one occasion.

  “Pull over,” he told Zack.

  “What?”

  “That punk is about to steal a woman’s purse, but he’s not going to get away with it,” Luke said, unbuckling his seat belt and yanking open the Humvee’s door before Zack had even come to a complete stop.

  “Luke, that’s no…”

  But he didn’t hear the rest of his brother’s sentence because the teen had made his move, planting a palm against the woman’s back and shoving her to the ground at the same moment he snatched the handbag.

  The kid sprinted to the corner just as Luke’s feet hit the pavement. In four long-legged strides, he caught up with him. He slapped a hand at the kid’s collar, fisted the material of his shirt and jerked him backward and up off his feet.

  “Now, now,” he growled, low and deadly. His bicep bulged as he held the struggling teen aloft. “That’s not very nice. Stealing a lady’s purse.”

  The kid made sputtering noises. “Lemme go, you butthead.”

  Luke held out his other hand. “First, fork over the purse.”

  “Go steal your own. This one’s mine,” the defiant kid said, even though his face was turning red from the pressure Luke applied to his collar.

  Not wanting to actually harm the kid, Luke lowered him to the ground, clamped his other hand around his wrist before he let go of his collar and then wrenched the handbag away from him.

  “Hey, hey, what are you doin’?” the kid protested as Luke started dragging him back down the street. “Get your hands off me.”

  “You’re going to apologize,” Luke said through clenched teeth. Being held responsible for his actions was the only way the teenager was going to learn to respect others.

  “I ain’t apologizing for nothin’.”

  “Would you rather I called the police?”

  The kid just scowled.

  The crowd stared. Luke searched for the woman who’d lost her purse and caught sight of her.

  She rushed forward and in a dark, gravelly voice said breathlessly, “You got my purse back for me, you big ol’ hunk of manhood.”

  Now that she was standing just a few feet away, Luke was disconcerted to realize that she was no woman. Her features were decidedly masculine. Large nose, iron jaw, false eyelashes, no breasts.

  Aw hell. He had just rescued a cross-dresser in distress.

  Luke was so unnerved he let go of the kid, who immediately sprinted off down a side street.

  “My hero.” The cross-dresser accepted the purse Luke thrust at him. The guy clutched his hammy palms together in a dramatic gesture and batted his faux eyelashes suggestively. “Can I buy you a drink to express my appreciation?”

  “No thanks.” Luke grunted, pivoted on his heel and stalked away.

  Desperate to escape, he glanced around for the Humvee and spotted Zack double-parked with the engine running, laughing his ass off.

  “I tried to tell you that was no lady,” Zack said, once Luke had slammed the door closed behind him. “But you’re always judging a book by its cover.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Luke glowered darkly.

  “Yep.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered. “She or he, whatever the case may be, did not deserve to have money stolen by some badly reared kid.”

  Zack shook his head. “The Lone Ranger galloping to the rescue.”

  “Shut up and drive before you get t
icketed for parking in a tow-away zone.”

  A hot flush of embarrassment spread up the back of Luke’s neck. He felt like an idiot. Was he actually so naive that he’d been unable to distinguish the difference between a real woman and a man in drag?

  Apparently so. Luke winced. Okay, maybe Zack was right. He was experiencing culture shock. Time to get his mind back where it belonged. On the job at hand.

  “So,” Luke said, “forget about the distractions and tell me more about this assignment. What’s the client’s name?”

  Still chuckling, Zack nodded at the glove compartment. “File’s in there.”

  Luke opened the glove compartment and took out a brown file folder. He unhooked the clasp, slid the papers out and was confused to find himself staring at Callie Ryder’s head shot.

  “I don’t understand.” He frowned. “What’s this about?”

  “The client in question.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Our gal Callie has written a book about her adventures as a female shock jock. That was why I tuned the radio in to her program. Give you a sneak preview of what you’re in for.” Zack’s grin was wicked.

  “You mean she’s the one I’ll be guarding?” His stomach plummeted to the bottom of his combat boots.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re enjoying making me uncomfortable about this,” he accused.

  “Kinda, yeah.” Zack winked. “Just think, you and Callie alone together.”

  “On the road,” Luke muttered, his dread growing by the minute.

  “Close quarters,” Zack confirmed.

  “For three weeks?”

  “That’s right. Think of it as a vacation. When we were kids you would lighten up considerably when we went on trips. Just remember what they say in show biz. What happens on the road stays on the road. If you get my drift.”

  Luke got it all right. He was stuck riding herd over the sexiest woman he had never wanted to meet, on a cross-country road trip for the next twenty-one days with a raging libido and a moral code that would not allow him to act on his baser impulses no matter how much he might want to.

  Great. Just great.

  “Dream come true, huh?” Zack laughed.

  Dream, hell, more like his worst nightmare.

  2

  “WE’LL BE RIGHT BACK following the news at the midnight hour,” Callie purred seductively. “Give me a call so we can continue our scintillating discussion about hard-ons. Come on, New York, let’s talk about sex.”

  The ‘on-air’ light flashed off in the control booth at the KSXX studios as the program engineer, Barb Johnson, cut to the pretaped news. Callie removed her headset, took a long sip of bottled water to wet her dry mouth and then plowed a hand through her short, spiky hair recently dyed flamboyant fuchsia. Her jaunty, carefree movements sent the numerous sterling-silver bracelets at her wrist jangling merrily.

  “Whew, Cal, that virgin livery guy fantasy was a hot one.” Barb fanned herself. “I need a freezing cold shower and for once it’s not from menopause.”

  To be honest, the brazen courtesan scenario had gotten Callie pretty revved up, too. Her own hottest secret sex dreams always revolved around seducing an inexperienced, but exceptionally willing man and single-handedly schooling him into becoming the best lover on the planet.

  In fact, she had a distinct mental picture of this raw, diamond-in-the-rough fantasy lover. He would be tall and very masculine. Dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders, washboard abs. He would have a powerful, commanding presence while at the same time possessing tender inner sensibilities.

  A strapping manly man who also had a nurturing, caring side.

  She had in mind a modern day Sir Galahad. Chaste and pure of heart and loyal to a fault and with amazing self-control.

  And she would be the one who corrupted him.

  Gooseflesh spread up her arms and she licked her lips as she vividly imagined her hero. Ready, willing and anxious to please.

  Her lover would have a dormant lustiness just waiting to be exposed by her. He would show his gratitude for her generosity by giving her the most incredible orgasms of her life.

  And as she lay trembling and sated in his arms, he would scoop her up and take her to a steaming bubble bath where he would gently bathe her and then shampoo her hair. He would paint her toenails and give her a massage and then he would make love to her all over again.

  Callie gulped. She could see him as clearly as if he was a real person.

  She was not sure why this particular scenario appealed to her so much. Maybe it was because she liked being in charge, or perhaps it was because she longed to be pampered by a fervent partner.

  Either way, the fantasy popped up in her dreams with alarming regularity. Tonight, her caller from Queens had given Callie carte blanche to explore her most furtive desires on the air.

  And explore she had.

  What a lark!

  She had learned a long time ago if she could turn herself on, she could turn her listeners on. And boy was she turned on. Ergo, her listeners must be going at it like bunnies. Her body was still tingling from the heady hormonal rush. She just hoped she didn’t end up with a hefty fine from the FCC for crossing the line from intriguing to indecent.

  “I’m gonna give Thaddeus a call, tell him to be up and ready when I get home,” Barb said, referring to her husband of twenty-five years. “I am in the mood for some lovin’.”

  Barb was a forty-something, cocoa-skinned beauty impeccably dressed in a feminine pale pink pantsuit that contrasted radically with Callie’s bold green camouflage-colored micromini, black halter top and lace-up combat boots.

  “I’m glad you liked the program.” Callie grinned. “And I hope Thaddeus appreciates the fallout.”

  “I’m sure he will.” Barb winked. “How do you keep coming up with these fascinating fantasies night after night?”

  “Guess I’m just lucky I have a dirty mind.” She chuckled.

  “Lucky, hell. You’re damned talented.”

  “You flatter me,” Callie said.

  “Please.” Barb snorted. “Why do you think Let’s Talk About Sex just got picked up in the West Coast market? The phone lines are jammed. We’ve had over six hundred calls and this is a Wednesday night. Everyone wants the ear of the Midnight Ryder. And his Highness would kill for numbers like that.” She grinned and jerked a thumb at the poster on the wall above her head.

  “You think?”

  “I know,” Barb said.

  Callie leaned back in her chair and eyed the glossy advertisement poster depicting the reigning king of KSXX talk radio, Buck Bryson.

  Buck was well into middle age but tried to diminish his years by wearing his hair too long and hiding behind a pair of pricey designer sunglasses. He was a master at his job and Callie had studied his techniques. She owed the senior deejay a lot, whether Buck realized it or not.

  “You’ve got old Bucky boy on the ropes, babe,” Barb said. “Did you hear? He has taken to making snide comments about you on the morning show.”

  “Buck’s bad-mouthing me? I would say that is a very good sign.”

  “J-e-a-l-o-u-s.” Barb spelled out the word. “The man is running scared.”

  “You exaggerate.” Callie smiled modestly.

  “Like hell. One day in the very near future I predict his slot will be yours if you want it.”

  Callie didn’t lust after the morning slot because she would have to tone down her format to comply with the more restricted a.m. regulations and of course she’d be forced to change her handle. How could the Midnight Ryder be on at 6 a.m?

  She didn’t even crave the big bump in pay that went with the morning slot. She was competitive only to the degree that a better time slot got her more exposure and more exposure helped her get her message out to more women.

  Sex is fun. Dive right in and make no excuses for enjoying yourself.

  Callie believed the world was full of sexy, exciting possibilities and it was her mission to spread the
word via her talk show. Her lusty outlook on life came from having a forward-thinking, feminist mom who had sat her down when she was nine and told her everything she needed to know about sex. Including a protracted contraceptive demonstration that had concluded with her mother rolling a condom onto an unpeeled banana.

  Mom had topped off the talk by handing her a catalogue of sex toys and then giving her this bizarre advice: “Remember, Cal gal, a woman needs a man like a trout needs a Harley.”

  Callie still wasn’t sure what that meant but she had learned to appreciate and revel in her sensuality without feeling the least bit guilty. If Buck had understood that Callie was driven solely by the desire to help other women find their own inner sex goddess, he probably wouldn’t have felt so obligated to bad-mouth her.

  Callie got to her feet just as her business manager and longtime friend, Molly Anne Armstrong, appeared on the opposite side of the soundproof glass booth. She was clutching a manila folder and crooking an index finger at her.

  Even at midnight in a nearly empty radio station, Molly Anne was dressed in a professional navy pinstriped suit, sensible flats and her ubiquitous tortoiseshell spectacles. Molly Anne had twenty-twenty visual acuity. She just wore the glasses because she thought they made her look more intelligent.

  “The proper image,” Molly Anne was fond of saying, “is everything.”

  Callie and Molly Anne had grown up together in the same rough neighborhood in Winslow, Georgia, not far from the hospital where their single mothers had worked as emergency-room nurses on the graveyard shift. They had been latchkey kids, eating far more than their share of sugary breakfast cereals and frozen TV dinners and microwave popcorn.

  When they were sixteen—after Callie caught her boyfriend cheating on her, and Molly Anne got stood up for the junior prom—they had made a pact to never trust men. And they had sealed their sworn oath by pricking their fingers with a medical lancet they’d swiped from Callie’s mom’s first-aid kit. Signing their names in blood, they vowed never to let a guy come between them.

  The pact had held up for eighteen years.

  During that time Molly Anne had been there for Callie’s smart-mouthed antics, which began as nothing more than a defense mechanism. Callie rebelled against a father who had no time for her once he’d divorced her mother, married a much younger wife just eight years older than Callie and had a cute little baby daughter of their own.