She was humming, a quick, jumpy tune that suited her quick, jumpy moves when she plopped into a chair and took out her lipstick.
“Ooh,” she said and snagged one of the cut-glass bottles of scent. “Do Me.” She spritzed it on lavishly, then to Louise’s surprised amusement, tucked the bottle in her evening bag. “That’s just the idea.”
She scooped back her long mane of curls, sent Louise a glittery smile. “Congratulate me.” Moniqua rose, skimmed her hands over her breasts, down her hips. “I’m about to get really lucky.”
“Congratulations,” Louise told her, and laughed a little as Moniqua slithered out of the room.
She slithered right up to the booth where the man she knew as Byron was already standing, holding out a hand. “Ready?”
She took his hand, leaned in, and rubbed her body provocatively over his. “Want to hear what I’m ready for?”
Though she whispered as they walked, they skirted close enough to where Charles sat that he caught one very imaginative suggestion. Idly, h
e glanced after them and wondered because of the man’s subtle detachment, if he was an LC on the job.
Then he looked over, saw Louise walking back. And couldn’t think of anything but her.
Moniqua Cline worked hard as a paralegal in one of the city’s midlevel firms. She had aspirations and ambitions, most of which were oriented toward career. But she had more intimate ones as well, which involved fantasies about the perfect mate who would share her love of neo-classic art, tropical get-aways, and poetry.
A man, in her dreams, with a sophisticated edge, a toned body, a romantic mind, and some good urban polish.
It seemed she’d found him in Byron.
He was so handsome, with his shoulder-sweeping bronze hair, his golden tan. Her nervous pulse had jumped like dice in a cup when she’d seen him waiting in the booth they’d agreed upon.
He’d already had champagne poured and ready.
When he’d spoken her name, the warmth, the faintest of British accents in his voice had made her want to melt.
The first glass of champagne had gone to her head. She’d been so hot, so itchy. When she’d slid across the booth, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from getting her hands on him. Her mouth on him, she’d felt drunk and happy.
Now they were alone in her apartment, and everything seemed soft and fluid. As if she were looking through a thin veil of warm, rippling water.
There was music playing, sweeping rainbow arches of music. And more champagne to dance in her head and sweeten her tongue.
His mouth was silky as it skimmed over hers. His hands so skilled that everywhere he touched her throbbed and ached. Unbearably. He said lovely things to her, though it was hard to understand them through the dizziness, the arousal that bloomed inside her like roses.
Then he drew away and made her moan in protest.
“I want to prepare.” He took her hands, traced kisses over the backs. “Set the stage. You want romance, Moniqua. I’m going to give it to you. Wait here for me.”
Her head spun as she watched him get to his feet, pick up his bag. She couldn’t quite . . . think.
“I want—I need to . . .” She got shakily to her feet, gestured toward the bathroom. “Freshen up. For you.”
“Of course. Don’t be long. I want to be with you. I want to take you places you’ve never been.”
“I won’t.” She strained against him, lifting an eager mouth to his. “It’s so perfect, Byron.”
“Yes.” He led her to the bathroom door, nudged her gently inside. “It’s perfect.”
He lighted the candles. He turned down the bed, sprinkled rose petals on the sheets, plumped the pillows.
He’d chosen well, he decided, as he studied the bedroom. He approved the art, the colors, the good fabric of the spread. She was a woman of taste. He touched the slim, old volume of poetry on her bedside table. And intellect.
He might have loved her. If love existed.
He set two fresh flutes of champagne on the table. Added three drops of the drug to one. He would dilute it this time, extend the experience. Lucias had told him she could live for two hours, perhaps a bit more, with the combination of drugs in this proportion in her bloodstream.