her skin very white in contrast, her long, pale legs spread wide as her mouth smiled and taunted him. He imagined himself burying his face in the red satin and drinking in the scent of her.
*
Charlotte Minger drove a 1991 Pontiac Firebird with a crunched right rear fender. The front bucket seats were covered with fuzzy leopard-print fake fur that made Brandon sweat—there was no air-conditioning and the temperature outside hovered close to ninety degrees. There were sticks of Big Red chewing gum scattered over the dashboard, along with several tubes of lipstick, and a five-inch cardboard tree swung from the rearview mirror, turning the car's interior into a cedar forest. 'N Sync blasted from the tape player, adding to the oppression that pressed against his temples.
It hadn't taken Brandon long to surmise that Charlotte Minger's idea of a Beltbuster for dinner had nothing to do with a hamburger from the Dairy Queen. Her skirt barely covered her crotch. Braless, she wore a skintight tank top that left little to the imagination. She had bathed in Red Door perfume, curled her silver hair into sexy ringlets around her face, and accentuated her full mouth by lining it with black, then applying dark brown lipstick. Henry's face had turned white at the sight of her. Fortunately, Betty had left by the time of Charlotte 's arrival. Otherwise, Brandon suspected she would have locked him in his room and thrown away the key. Perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad idea. He was trying very hard to focus on anything other than the skirt inching up Charlotte 's thighs with every bounce of the car. Not so very many years ago he would have suggested they pull over to the side of the road, then hauled her onto his lap and got on with the business of cooling their lust. But that was then and this was now. He was infinitely wiser … not to mention older … and feeling older by the minute.
He smoked and tried to think of a topic of conversation to which they could both relate.
"Oh, my God!" she suddenly announced, her voice raised to be heard over the wind rushing into the car through the open windows and the boom-boom of 'N Sync blasting from the speakers. "I can't believe I'm on a date with Brandon Carlyle !"
He glanced at her legs again and shrugged. "Get over it, Charlotte . It's no big deal."
"Right. Sure. You're only the sexiest man alive."
"Don't believe everything you read. And besides, that was a long time ago."
"Whatever. God, you're better than Brad Pitt ever thought about being. Then again, I don't like blond guys much, and he started wearing that goofy beard thing that makes him look like a goat. And Ben Affleck is pretty awesome. Do you know him?"
"No."
"What about Matt Damon?"
"No."
"'Course, they're lots younger than you, huh?"
He cut his eyes to hers and blew out a stream of smoke. "Right."
"I don't care much for DiCaprio either. I read once that you were considered for his part in Titanic, but the producers decided they wanted someone younger."
"Could we please talk about something besides my age?"
"I suppose if you're like twelve or something, you'd find DiCaprio sexy, but when I fantasize about a man, it's gonna be someone like y ou. Tall, dark, and dangerous. A real bad boy. Know what I mean?"
He nodded and reached for the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, dug out a cigarette, and used the stub in his mouth to light the fresh one. No doubt about it, he was a card-carrying bad boy.
"I used to be in love with Johnny Whitehorse. God, that Indian was so sexy. I have his poster right next to yours on my bedroom wall. You know the one where he's standing on a street in New York with his jeans unzipped?" She fanned her face with one hand and squirmed in her seat. "Then he had to go and get married. And if that wasn't enough, he quit acting and went into politics. Do you know Johnny Whitehorse?"
Brandon grinned and nodded. At one time Johnny had been a fierce competitor in the business. But his being a
*
Charlotte Minger drove a 1991 Pontiac Firebird with a crunched right rear fender. The front bucket seats were covered with fuzzy leopard-print fake fur that made Brandon sweat—there was no air-conditioning and the temperature outside hovered close to ninety degrees. There were sticks of Big Red chewing gum scattered over the dashboard, along with several tubes of lipstick, and a five-inch cardboard tree swung from the rearview mirror, turning the car's interior into a cedar forest. 'N Sync blasted from the tape player, adding to the oppression that pressed against his temples.
It hadn't taken Brandon long to surmise that Charlotte Minger's idea of a Beltbuster for dinner had nothing to do with a hamburger from the Dairy Queen. Her skirt barely covered her crotch. Braless, she wore a skintight tank top that left little to the imagination. She had bathed in Red Door perfume, curled her silver hair into sexy ringlets around her face, and accentuated her full mouth by lining it with black, then applying dark brown lipstick. Henry's face had turned white at the sight of her. Fortunately, Betty had left by the time of Charlotte 's arrival. Otherwise, Brandon suspected she would have locked him in his room and thrown away the key. Perhaps that wouldn't have been such a bad idea. He was trying very hard to focus on anything other than the skirt inching up Charlotte 's thighs with every bounce of the car. Not so very many years ago he would have suggested they pull over to the side of the road, then hauled her onto his lap and got on with the business of cooling their lust. But that was then and this was now. He was infinitely wiser … not to mention older … and feeling older by the minute.
He smoked and tried to think of a topic of conversation to which they could both relate.
"Oh, my God!" she suddenly announced, her voice raised to be heard over the wind rushing into the car through the open windows and the boom-boom of 'N Sync blasting from the speakers. "I can't believe I'm on a date with Brandon Carlyle !"
He glanced at her legs again and shrugged. "Get over it, Charlotte . It's no big deal."
"Right. Sure. You're only the sexiest man alive."
"Don't believe everything you read. And besides, that was a long time ago."
"Whatever. God, you're better than Brad Pitt ever thought about being. Then again, I don't like blond guys much, and he started wearing that goofy beard thing that makes him look like a goat. And Ben Affleck is pretty awesome. Do you know him?"
"No."
"What about Matt Damon?"
"No."
"'Course, they're lots younger than you, huh?"
He cut his eyes to hers and blew out a stream of smoke. "Right."
"I don't care much for DiCaprio either. I read once that you were considered for his part in Titanic, but the producers decided they wanted someone younger."
"Could we please talk about something besides my age?"
"I suppose if you're like twelve or something, you'd find DiCaprio sexy, but when I fantasize about a man, it's gonna be someone like y ou. Tall, dark, and dangerous. A real bad boy. Know what I mean?"
He nodded and reached for the cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, dug out a cigarette, and used the stub in his mouth to light the fresh one. No doubt about it, he was a card-carrying bad boy.
"I used to be in love with Johnny Whitehorse. God, that Indian was so sexy. I have his poster right next to yours on my bedroom wall. You know the one where he's standing on a street in New York with his jeans unzipped?" She fanned her face with one hand and squirmed in her seat. "Then he had to go and get married. And if that wasn't enough, he quit acting and went into politics. Do you know Johnny Whitehorse?"
Brandon grinned and nodded. At one time Johnny had been a fierce competitor in the business. But his being a
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