You Sexy Thing!

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grace. What good would my input do now? You couldn’t possibly change anything.”

“I don’t want to change anything. I just want you to read it. Can you do that for me?” Grace leaned her forehead against the glass, then rolled the window down and took a deep breath of the cool, damp air. Finally she laughed, then said, “Never mind, Mom. I wouldn’t want to make you do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

“That’s my girl. I knew you’d come around if we talked about it, dear.”

But we haven’t talked about it. I’ve talked, you’ve stone-walled. Just another day in the life and times of Grace and Priscilla Mattias.

At any rate, she supposed she should be grateful she hadn’t gotten the usual “Grace, your biological clock’s ticking…there’s only a small number of suitable men out there and they’re all being snatched up by other women…are you ever going to settle down and give me grandkids” speech that punctuated most of her conversations with her mother.

“If it makes any difference, I’m glad your interview went well, Grace. And I’m happy that things are going the way…well, the way that you want them.”

What went unsaid was that “things” weren’t going the way her mother wanted them. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you saying that.” She leaned back into the seat and grabbed for her peanuts. Things were going just the way she wanted them. Her first book was taking off. She had her new bayside condo in Baltimore that was now being renovated. And she was enjoying every moment of making her own decisions without someone constantly breathing down her neck and asking her just what in the hell she thought she was doing.

She smiled to herself. Yes, she was very happy with her life, indeed. She popped a few peanuts into her mouth. “So tell me, Mom. Which problem do you hope to throw money at during lunch today?”

3

CHOPPED LIVER. That’s what he felt like after his bout with Dr. Gracie Mattias, pure and simple and bloody raw. Dylan cast a glance around the lobby. Tanja wasn’t even around for him to vent at. She’d abandoned him outside the radio station, claiming she had family in the area and had scheduled to meet a friend for lunch, did he mind? He’d wanted to tell her yes, he did mind, but hadn’t. He was afraid he’d sound too…demanding? Unbending? Whiny?

He cringed at the last description, realizing that’s exactly what he was doing. He was whining. Just like a five-year-old who had his bike stolen, training wheels and all.

It was ridiculous, really. Overall the interview had gone well. Toward the end he had even begun to enjoy himself, giving as good as he got when it came to trading digs with the sex doctor.

Jesus, had he really just thought of her as the sex doctor? If so, what did that make him? The anti-sex doctor?

He didn’t want to begin to analyze that bizarre train of thought.

Dylan poked at the elevator button again, somehow managing a half-assed smile in the general direction of a young couple who had just stepped in from the rain to stand next to him. Their cheerful, attentive-to-each-other disposition made his disposition even darker.

“This is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

Dylan grimaced, then nodded at the young woman to show he had heard.

“We just got married.” The man looped his arms around the woman and tugged her closer. “This is the first day of our honeymoon.”

“Congratulations.” Dylan forced a close-mouthed smile then turned back toward the elevator.

Kissing noises sounded beside him. He rubbed the back of his neck, wondering where the stairs were, and whether he was up to climbing seventeen floors. “Uh,” he began, interrupting the couple from their amorous pursuits. “A word of warning. When the elevator stops, you may want to make sure it’s actually on the floor you want.”

The couple looked at him, then each other, sporting quizzical expressions he had been sorely tempted to bestow on a few of his more…interesting patients. Like the one who got into wearing women’s silk stockings under his Brooks Brothers business suits when he appeared in Superior Court.

He cleared his throat. “I found out the hard way that they don’t always do that. The elevators. You know, stop on the floor you want. Creates a bit of a…mess.” Although he really couldn’t call what had happened this morning a mess. An unfortunate mishap, maybe. A wild accident. But definitely not a mess. Not when a man got to take a peek at a woman of Gracie Mattias’s caliber.

“Um, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Finally, a ding. The elevator doors opened. Dylan stepped in and to the back, automatically making room for the couple. He reached around them and pushed the button for his floor.

“Hold that elevator!”

Dylan clenched his jaw and covertly reached around the couple to punch the close button. All he wanted was to get back to his room, shrug out of his damp clothes, then review his schedule for the next two weeks. Make a list of things to have Tanja see to. First and foremost, making sure that he knew exactly who he was going to be up against in coming interviews.

“Thanks.” A breathless someone stuck her hand between the closing doors, then slid in between them.

Dylan stood a little straighter, willing the doors to close before someone else could delay his ascension to his room and sweet peace.

“It’s you.”

Dylan jerked to stare at the late arrival. And nearly dropped to his knees. Which wouldn’t have been an inappropriate response given the woman he was staring at. He hadn’t noticed at the radio station, but Dr. Grace Mattias was tall. Nearly as tall as he was at six foot. A goddess. No, no, Galatea in the Pygmalion tale. Galatea, the statue Pygmalion had crafted of the perfect mate. Aphrodite had taken pity on the poor guy and brought the statue to life because of Pygmalion’s deep love for the inanimate object. That’s who Grace reminded him of. Even more with her damp hair curving against the skin of her cheeks and neck. Tiny droplets plopped against her soaked white tank, drawing his gaze to the hardened tips of her breasts.

Heat, sure and swift, swept through his groin and he fought the urge to groan aloud. Gracie Mattias wasn’t destined for wife and motherhood as Galatea had been. No, she was put on earth solely to torture men like him with her oozing sensuality and provocative ways.

She cocked her head slightly to the side and gave him a hesitant smile, as though trying to analyze what was going on in his head. He’d be better off remembering that Gracie was completely capable of doing just that. He immediately snapped straighter.

“Don’t look so shocked,” she said. “I think we’ve already, um, established that we’re staying at the same hotel.”

The couple with their arms wrapped around each other looked their way. “In separate rooms,” Dylan pointed out.

“Of course in separate rooms. We don’t even know each other.”

Dylan grimaced. “From the sound of it, that’s not necessarily something that would stop you.”

“Ooo, that was a low blow, Dr. Dylan. We’re not on the radio show anymore. You can put the jabs away now.”

He dipped his chin and managed a wry grin. “Sorry. That was kind of a cheap shot, wasn’t it?”

“Bargain basement.”

He slanted her a gaze from the corner of his eye. She seemed completely unconcerned with her disheveled appearance. This was at odds with her carefully put together front for the radio host. She didn’t make apologies and utter some inane comment about how she must look. She didn’t move to get a hairbrush from the depths of the huge handbag slung over her shoulder. And she didn’t try to repair her makeup. He wondered exactly how long she had been out in the rain.

He took a deep breath, pulling in a subtle, tangy scent that hovered somewhere between juicy, overripe oranges and tart, green apples. Her shampoo, maybe. Though it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she, herself, naturally smelled like the succulent fruit.

“Excuse me, do you mind if I take a look?”

Dylan blinked at the young woman standing in front of him. The bride was gesturing toward the window behind him that overlooked the vast lobby as they moved upward.

“Sorry. Sure, go ahead.”

She did. And took her new husband with her.

Dylan stood ramrod straight in front of the closed elevator doors. Gracie joined him.

“Newlyweds,” he said quietly.

“Ah.”

A dull thump sounded from behind him. Dylan looked over his shoulder to find that the newlyweds had apparently taken in enough of the view and were now taking in each other. His eyes widened as the woman practically climbed up on the man. The man’s hand skimmed her side then cupped her behind the knee. In a smooth move, he lifted her leg then thrust his body against her softness.

Dylan jerked back to face the elevator doors.

“Exhibitionists,” Gracie whispered.

He looked at her blankly. “Rude.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. “Come on, Dr. Dylan, I should think that since they’re married almost anything should go in your book.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Nowhere did I write that this was acceptable behavior.”

Gracie’s deep, deep brown eyes held amusement. “I meant figuratively, not literally.”

“Oh.”

She held up a finger. “Speaking of which.” She began rummaging through her bulging bag, then tugged something out with a little resistance. “Here.”

He stared at the book she held as if he was afraid it might bite. Seeing as it was her book, he wasn’t taking any chances.

“I had one left over from the stack my publisher sent to the station. Go on, take it.”

He did.

“I figure that you were caught at a bit of a disadvantage this morning. You know, having not reviewed my theories and all.”

He held up the magazine tucked under his arm still opened to the page focusing on her. “I wasn’t as uninformed as you think.”

“Oh my God! Can I see that? How did you get a hold of a copy so quickly? Rick, that’s my assistant, hasn’t said a word about its release.”

Dylan reluctantly let the magazine go. He stood silently wishing the elevator would get to his floor already as Gracie silently read the piece. He tensed at her little bursts of laughter, trying to ignore the low moans coming from the couple behind them. Then she flipped the magazine over to where he was featured. Dylan gave in to the urge to work his finger inside his overtight collar.

“Says here you’re married.”

“Divorced.”

“Oh, baby,” the bride moaned.

Dylan noticed that Gracie sneaked a glance at the couple, her brows jumping high on her forehead. She turned forward again, color touching her cheeks. Dylan didn’t even want to think of what it would take to shock the shocking sex doctor. She leaned closer to him, giving him another whiff of her fruity scent. “Um, I wouldn’t look back there if I were you.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

The elevator finally drew to a stop. There is a God. The doors slid open and Dylan immediately began to step out. Away from the groping newlyweds. Far, far away from the enticing Dr. Mattias.

Gracie slapped the magazine against his chest. “This is how you got yourself in trouble the last time. This is my stop, remember?” Her smile held mischief and amusement as she got out then held the doors open with her hand. “Would you like to know what my recommended course for therapy would be for you, Dr. Dylan?”

His gaze drifted to where her breasts pressed against the flimsy material of her tank, the lace of her bra clearly visible beneath the damp fabric.

“I mean, given what I know about you so far, which isn’t a whole lot outside of your book.”

He jerked his gaze back to her face. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

“Good, because I’m going to tell you anyway.” She flipped her wet hair over a mostly bare shoulder. “What you need is a nice, traditional wild turn in the sack. And I’d recommend you see to it posthaste.”

Dylan nearly choked on whatever response he would have made as she waggled her fingers at him then sashayed down the hall. And sashay was the word for it. Finally the doors slid shut. He closed his eyes and swallowed as an article of clothing he didn’t even want to try to identify landed next to his left foot, no doubt compliments of the couple behind him.

WILD TURN IN THE SACK, INDEED. Dylan set about the nerve-calming, erotic-image-banishing task of unpacking his solitary suitcase. Something he would have had a chance to do earlier had he not accidentally interrupted Gracie Mattias’s shower that morning. Something he would be doing efficiently now if not for her inflammatory words. With quick, irritated movements, he rehung his blue shirt next to his navy slacks, well away from his tan jacket. Not that it mattered. He was scheduled to be in New York for only another day anyway. Tomorrow afternoon he was scheduled for a brief interview with a reporter from a top psychology magazine, then he was flying to St. Louis.

He decisively closed the closet doors then sat down to take off his shoes. Only then did he grow aware of his semiaroused state. He closed his eyes, determined to ignore the physical messages his body was sending him. He stripped out of his damp clothes and put on the hotel robe. There. He felt better already.

His sexual reaction to Gracie didn’t surprise him. He was only human after all. And she was one hundred percent female in heat. It’s how he acted on that basic, fundamental response that differentiated him from a mindless animal. Humans, in general, had the ability to make conscious decisions. While many still subscribed to the “I couldn’t help myself, it was an accident” philosophy when it came to extramarital affairs, the argument had never held much water for him. A man could always help himself. There was nothing accidental about falling into bed with a woman. In fact, whenever one of his patients tried using the excuse on him, he usually came back with something along the lines of “Right. So what you’re telling me is that you just tripped and fell right into her vagina.”

He carefully hung his suit on the towel warmer in the bathroom, smoothed out the wrinkles, then walked back into the other room. He sat down at the desk, eyed his laptop, the phone, then settled his gaze on Gracie’s book. Sex is Not a Four-Letter Word—Smashing Sexual Conventions. The title was spelled across a glossy white cover in pink and gold raised lettering. He pushed it aside and picked up the telephone receiver instead. Maybe he’d be able to get through to Diana.

A brief knock sounded at the door, then Tanja breezed right in. “Can you believe this rain? Isn’t it awesome?”

“My words, exactly.” Dylan grimaced at her. “You know you might want to think twice about just walking in here like that. You never know when you might catch me…in various stages of undress.”

“I should be so lucky.” She stopped in the middle of the room, hands on slender hips, even the purple spikes of her hair seeming to radiate energy. “Come on, Doc, you’re not the type to walk around your own apartment in your birthday suit, so there’s no real danger there, is there?”

“Coulter, Connor and Caplain, Attorneys-at-Law.”

Dylan stopped glowering at Tanja then asked to be put through to Diana. He drummed his fingers against the desktop, then slid Gracie’s book into the drawer before the PR rep could spot it. Four rings, then he was put through to Diana’s voice mail.

Tanja pried the receiver from his hand and soundly hung it up. “You can call whoever that was back when we get to Chicago.”

“Hey! I was just about to leave the number where I could be contacted.”

“It’s changing so what’s the point.” She swung the closet doors open, eyed the contents, then took out his suitcase and launched it toward the bed. Moments later, his clothes followed.

“What do you mean Chicago? We’re supposed to be going to St. Louis next. And that’s not until tomorrow.”

“Change in plans.”

“Change in plans?” He caught another launch of his neatly pressed clothes and tried to save them further wrinkling. “Don’t I have a say in that?”

Tanja stared at him, tapping her black-painted nail against her lips. “Nope.” She chose a couple of items from the pile and thrust them against his chest. “Get dressed. Our plane leaves in an hour.”

“What about the interview tomorrow?”

“Small-time.”

Feeling stupid, he turned to follow her thorough and completely shameless invasion of his privacy. “What’s in Chicago?”

Tanja stopped hooking his toiletries into his bag and grinned at him. “Only the most popular televised talk show in the country.”

“I thought that was Rosie.”

“Yeah, but Rosie wouldn’t give us the entire hour.” She stuffed the shaving bag into his arms. “With one condition.”

He frowned, clutching his things for dear life. “What condition?”

“That you share the spotlight with one very controversial Dr. Grace Mattias.”

For the second time in an hour, Dylan found himself sputtering for a response. “No way…not a chance in hell…over my dead body…” The objections tumbled from his mouth one right after the other, having little or no impact on Tanja as she put his laptop away.

“Come on, Dylan, you guys made quite the team this morning. Everyone loved you. You pulled in some of the highest ratings the show has ever seen.”

His brows shot up. “We did?” He’d never gotten high ratings in any of his promotional efforts before. Hell, he hadn’t been able to give away his first book, and it had never gone to a second printing. The thought that he may have reached not just someone but a wide range of someones today…well, that was what this was all about, wasn’t it? It might mean a turning of the tides. Instead of days filled juggling patients with teaching, he could reach a nationwide audience. Command impressive fees for speaking appearances. Prove once and for all that his parents were wrong and he was right.

Tanja smiled at him and added his briefcase to his overloaded arms. “You did.” She turned him around, then patted his bottom. “Now get a move on, Doc. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

4

Chicago

A KITCHEN.

Well, maybe not a kitchen, but definitely a kitchenette. One of those kinds that you could barely move around in but held all the basic necessities, like a new microwave, an old stove and an empty refrigerator. Gracie was vaguely aware of the door closing after the bellboy as she stood staring at the cramped space immediately to the left in the enormous Chicago hotel room. She’d come across a place like this once before, in Fort Lauderdale. Likely this wing used to be an apartment complex that had been converted to a hotel. A quick glance around the spacious living-dining area, and the bedroom and bath to the right, fueled her speculation.

The strap to her laptop-carrying case slid off her shoulder. She allowed the case to drop slowly to the floor, enraptured with her new find. She hadn’t had grains of salt under her fingernails since she began this crazy promotional tour. She opened and closed cabinet doors, peered into the empty but cold refrigerator, eyed the limited number of pots and pans, all with a ridiculous grin on her face. Someone watching might have thought she’d unearthed Atlantis instead of a chipped old stove, but she was beyond caring. She’d been in dire straits ever since she and Rick had caught dinner at a poor excuse for a Thai restaurant last night in New York and she had itched to get back into the restaurant kitchen to show the clueless Greek owner how it should be done. Instead, Rick had guided her out of there before she irreversibly embarrassed someone. Like herself.

Gracie ran her hand across the clean counter then straightened the miniature coffeemaker. Okay, so the place didn’t even come close to resembling her own state-of-the-art kitchen in Baltimore, but it was workable. Truth be told, she’d done a lot with much less in her first apartment, right after she’d graduated from college. Back when she had been determined to strike out on her own, pull her own weight and ignore the checks from her father’s accountant that piled up, unopened, on the scratched desk near the door that bore at least three dead bolts and countless chains and security devices. She’d never been prouder than when she’d made that little one-room place home. And she’d learned the finer points of making do with what one had. A trying but immensely gratifying experience. Especially when all her hard work had landed her a spot with a midlevel psychiatric practice before branching out on her own four years later.

She leaned against the wall and tapped a finger against her lips. A list. She had to make a list of what she needed from the store. The essentials were here. She wouldn’t have to invest in salt and pepper or sugar. The hotel had provided coffee and a small selection of teas, though she always traveled with her own supply ordered specially from Arizona.

What should she make? Something simple, requiring the fewest ingredients. But something that would fill the small place with a delectable aroma and would go with a good bottle of red wine. No, white. Fish. She was in Chicago, wasn’t she? Surely they would have a good selection of fish. Waking up to the smell of fish would remind her of home if not endear her to her neighbors.

A brief call to the concierge gave her directions to a small family-owned grocer a couple of blocks away. She hung up the phone on his offer to have an order placed on her behalf, then grabbed her purse and headed for the elevators.

A small cowbell above the advertisement-covered door announced her arrival at the grocer. No larger than the hotel room she had just left, the neat grocer had a good selection nonetheless. And plenty of fresh produce. As she happily made her selections, she allowed her mind to wander at will. Although only after five p.m. central time, darkness enveloped the street, weaving a web of billowed intimacy Gracie embraced. Chicago’s climate was similar to New York’s, albeit windier, earning the architecturally rich city its name, but it had an altogether different atmosphere. The unique, laid-back flavor of the mid-west was laced throughout despite the city’s valiant efforts to shrug it off. And the people weren’t as cynical, the lapping waves of Lake Michigan against the coast seeming to lull them into a feeling of peace.

“Can I see the trout, please? Yes, that one. To the left.” Grace accepted the paper-protected fish from the woman behind the counter and examined the clear condition of the eyes and the pinkness of the gills. She stared down into the open mouth, the sight comically reminding her of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s reaction when she’d told him he needed to get laid.

She handed the fish back. “I’ll take it.”

She added the item to her basket and turned toward the produce section. While Dr. Dylan’s facial expression had resembled that of the trout, she had the distinct impression that he was anything but a cold fish. Something elemental lurked in his green eyes. A maturity, an intensity, an innate sexuality that made it difficult to meet his gaze head-on initially, yet held you captive thereafter. An intriguing paradox that reminded her how her skin had tingled after their meeting at the radio station. How verbally sparring with him had made her wonder what going a couple of rounds with him in bed might be like.

He was a sex therapist, so she didn’t doubt he’d know all the exciting little details. But there was a difference between knowing and practicing. And she suspected that Dr. Dylan would put into practice everything he’d learned.

A shiver shimmied down the length of her spine, making her feel suddenly warm in her light raincoat.

Absently adding a couple of lemons to her basket, she moved on to pick through lettuce. An idea danced along the fringes of her thoughts and she unsuccessfully tried to grasp it. She envisioned her book. No, no, it didn’t have anything to do with her mother’s refusal to read it. She made a face, banishing the image of Priscilla’s tight-lipped face before it could spring roots. She moved to the tomatoes, testing them and adding a couple to her groceries. Rick? Did it have anything to do with her assistant and his mysterious company that morning in his New York hotel room? No, that wasn’t it, either. Although the idea of a couple struggling against twisted sheets did ring a distant bell. Either that, or someone else had just entered the grocery store.

She edged along peppers and mushrooms then came to a halt before a large display of cucumbers. She slowly picked one up.

The bell rang louder. And along with it came a vivid image of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks’s grinning face when they’d discussed masturbation.

Stumbling right in on the heels of the image was her sheer terror when the radio shock jock had asked Dr. Dylan whether or not he was a born-again virgin. She’d barely registered his response, so afraid that the host would shine that “virginal” light on her. Thankfully, he hadn’t. But that did nothing to assuage her longstanding fear that someday, someone would ask her the question, despite her carefully made-up appearance of being one hundred percent hot tamale who practiced the very advice she preached. And then where would she be? Not that she was a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But she wasn’t what she pretended to be, either.

Leading up to the promotional tour, she’d been petrified of being fingered for a fraud. Her theory on the need for sexual safaris was the greatest of her unpracticed advice. She remembered seeing an interview once with a marriage counselor who had never been married. The host had virtually thrown the psychologist’s advice right out the window, despite her years of backbreaking field research. Of course it had been one of those late-night, openly televised forums where the host made a point of going for the cheap shots. But the fact remained that if her limited sexual experience were to come to light, her hope of getting her word out would be little more than a car left abandoned at the side of the road with its hood up.

She absently ran the pad of her thumb over the prickly exterior of the cucumber, the innocuous movement sending a thrill of awareness over her skin. There was no denying that she was attracted to Dr. Dylan, though she firmly limited her attraction to him to physical attributes. What other reasons were there for being attracted to him? She didn’t know him. She knew some of his stuffy opinions, but that was a far cry from knowing the full man.

Who wouldn’t be attracted to him physically? He was tall, enigmatic, handsome as all get-out, and downright sexy.

And the concept of a sexual safari with him posed a decadently intriguing challenge, indeed….

She stood stock-still for a full minute, staring blindly at the cucumber she still held, her mind growing sluggish as it put two and two together. Then everything snapped together. Her heart did an erratic flip in her chest as she tripped straight over the path her subconscious had been trying to lead her down for the past few minutes.

That was it! She needed to put on her safari gear and bag one sexy prey in the shape of Dr. Dylan Fairbanks. Mussing some bed sheets with him would put an end to her feelings of being a fraud.

The earth began rotating again, and along with it a show of thigh-quivering mental pImages**. A bare, sculpted torso. Strong, hair-covered legs. Ragged breathing. Soft, needy cries. Slick, sweat-covered skin. A pulse-throbbing erection pressed against soft flesh, preparing to enter.

Gracie’s breath caught as she swallowed against the saliva gathering at the back of her throat. She shakily patted her hair. Okay, the prospect of sleeping with Dylan clearly wasn’t offensive. She gave a feeble laugh. Who was she kidding? She was practically wetting herself just thinking about it.

Trying to get a grip on herself, she considered that sleeping with Dr. Dylan could have some drawbacks. After all, he wasn’t a nameless, handsome face picked out at random in a neutral gaming zone.

She put back the cucumber she held and picked up one of the larger ones.

She would get the once-in-a-lifetime chance to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dr. Dylan Fairbanks and his ancient, out-of-whack philosophies were way off base.

She added the cucumber to her basket, and couldn’t help noticing the suddenly rubbery condition of her knees, and the anticipatory searing heat that rushed through her bloodstream.

Yes. Hunting Dr. Dylan was exactly what she needed to do…

DYLAN OPENED THE DOOR to the small grocer’s, grimacing at the sound of the cowbell announcing his arrival. Right now he just wanted to blend in with the background. Carve out a little privacy so he could start thinking straight again. Not that the hokey cowbell prevented that. Rather the bright yellow V-necked sweater and olive-green cargo pants he had on pretty much ruled out blending in with the background.

He tugged at the too-snug shirt material, telling himself for the fifth time since leaving the hotel that he should have left his suit on. But after the soaking it had taken in New York, then the wrinkling on the plane, he wasn’t sure it was salvageable, much less wearable. The morning’s mishaps had slid into a day full of disasters—the latest debacle being the loss of his luggage—and he had little choice but to allow Tanja to go shopping for him. Why didn’t it surprise him that the PR rep had completely ignored his express instructions to find something suitable, something he would buy for himself and instead bought him a temporary wardrobe more suited for a teenager than a responsible adult?

He felt like a…break-dancer.