Looking Inside

Overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety, she abruptly pushed herself off the bed. With her back to the window, she shoved her skirt down, covering her ass. For a moment, she just stood there with her head lowered, her fingers clutching at the bottom of her skirt, her mind awash with uncertainty.

She may have walked the walk. She may have played the part. But the role had abandoned her like an unfaithful lover. She was left standing there clutching her skirt like a little girl caught red-handed, her cheeks and eyelids burning, feeling foolish and ashamed of her impulsivity . . .

Of her gargantuan need for a man she didn’t even know.

Her lungs hitched uncomfortably when she tried to inhale.

It was regular, boring Eleanor who enacted the anticlimactic finale to her performance. She hurried out of the bedroom, too cowardly to turn and look Trey Riordan directly in the face, too timid to take that full, greedy bite out of life that she so longed to taste.

FOUR

On Tuesday night, Eleanor put on the finishing touches to her “costume.” She’d been too nervous to enter the guest bedroom since her infamous window dance last night, too afraid to look out the window. She didn’t know which would be worse, to see his empty bedroom or to see him.

Despite her uncertainty, she had slowly rebuilt her defenses last night and today at work. She’d willfully quashed her mortification at her shameless, hedonistic display. It hadn’t been embarrassing (or so she tried to convince herself). It had been confident and sensual, to seduce what she’d wanted so badly for so long. She wanted one glorious night of no-holds-barred passion with the most beautiful, desirable man she’d ever seen.

There was nothing wrong with knowing what you wanted and going for it.

The memories of those heart-pounding moments of the dance increasingly took center stage in her mind while she toiled away in the library’s basement all day, helping to convince her. She recalled how excited she’d been, how powerful she’d felt witnessing Trey’s blatant, honest male arousal and absolute focus on her. She still cringed when she thought about facing him tonight at the museum’s reading event. Nevertheless, she was preparing to go.

Maybe it was because the idea of him not showing, of him avoiding her because he’d found her display embarrassing in the aftermath, pained her even more than giving up. How else could she reassure herself on that count unless she went to the coffee shop tonight, book in hand, and saw firsthand if he was willing to face her or not?

She’d chosen her outfit for the evening from Caddy’s wardrobe—a sexy black romper with opaque black thigh-highs and boots. The romper had a darling, oversized white schoolgirl-like collar, its modesty in direct contrast to the garment’s short length and the provocative way the knit tightly fitted her breasts, waist and rib cage. The boots she chose went several inches above her knee and were made of black leather with a three-inch chunky heel. Panties and bra remained in her drawer. The white collar cleverly dipped down to obscure her nipples, while the clinging knit suggested—strongly—the truth about her braless state. It was a wardrobe tease, one of those features that got you thinking . . . Is she, or isn’t she? Eleanor loved it. Besides, she’d already showed Trey everything. No need to grow modest now.

The romper’s fabric hung loose around her hips and thighs. When she stood with her legs slightly parted, she could feel the air caressing her sex. The sensation aroused her, maybe even more so than it had the first night she’d gone into public without underwear.

She was transforming into a shameless exhibitionist, no doubt about it.

She’d just donned a short black suede trench coat and was finger-combing her long, loosely curled hair over the faux-fur collar when the house phone rang. As she lifted the receiver, she had a sinking feeling. Only Harry, the doorman, typically called on the house phone, and Harry called only when she had a delivery or a visitor. It was too late for a delivery. She had a pretty good suspicion whom the visitor would be.

“Hello?”

“Caddy, it’s Harry downstairs. Your gorgeous mama is here to see you,” Harry Carver boomed warmly into the receiver.

Eleanor heard a sharp female voice in the background. She didn’t reply at first, too stunned at unexpectedly being called her sister’s name. There was an uncomfortable pause on the line.

“Oh, Je

sus, I’m so sorry, Eleanor,” Harry apologized rapidly. He sounded very upset. Eleanor’s heart went out to him.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she assured.

“I dialed the number and was looking at your mom, and it just came out—”

“I understand. Really. My mom came to visit Caddy here hundreds of times. It’s only natural.”

She glanced down at her sexy outfit, frowning. She wouldn’t have time to change if she wanted to actually make the event. Her mother was a professor of psychology. As a psychologist’s daughter, Eleanor had an uncomfortable suspicion about her mother’s theory on why Eleanor was dressing up in her big sister’s clothes.

“You can go ahead and send my mom up, Harry,” she finally said resignedly.

“Will do. And again, I’m sorry about that . . . before.”

Eleanor closed her eyes. She knew how much Harry had doted on Caddy.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said softly. “I consider it a compliment, to be accidentally called her name.”

She heard Harry’s gruff, uncomfortable laugh before she hung up the phone.

Catherine Briggs was always certain to bring two things with her on her surprise visits to her daughters: a sumptuous Russian delicacy and unwanted motherly advice. For Caddy and Eleanor, the former had always gone a long way in helping them endure the latter, a fact they expected their mother knew and for which she planned.