a study in opposites, bathed in the soft golden overhead light. Aaron poured Virginia a glass of the chilled champagne. She downed it in one gulp, he noted uncomfortably, and then held the glass out for another, repeating the exercise after Aaron had reluctantly refilled it. When she attempted to pour herself a third glass, Aaron pulled her hand away from the bottle and said gently, “I think you’ve had enough.”
But she earnestly protested, without defensiveness or hostility, but just as if she were explaining the matter, “No, I don’t think I have,” and she poured and drank a third glass of champagne before she twirled over to the bed and fell back on it with a carefree giggle.
Aaron studied the sprawled white form, her long curls streaming over the edge of the bed. Jesus, had Virginia really had that much to drink? Personally, it’d take a fifth of scotch to have much of an effect on him, but then he’d had the sterling example of many an alcoholic foster father to show him how to hold his hard liquor. The genteel Miss Beckett was undoubtedly not so lucky .
“I think you could use a cup of coffee,” Aaron found himself, incredibly enough, suggesting.
Virginia stretched sensuously, the movement pulling the white silk of her dress tautly against her full tits, the effect agonizingly catalogued by a suddenly wary Aaron. This was ridiculous. Virginia Beckett was a smart, capable, grown woman. She headed her own company, for God’s sake. He didn’t need to patronizingly second-guess her. If she wanted to get roaring drunk before she got laid, who was he to object?
On the other hand, if this was her usual practice, the private detective’s report on her personal life that he had commissioned certainly would have turned something like that up. He was starting to get a bad feeling here.
“Virginia, honey, how about some coffee?”
She turned on her side on the bed to face him and wantonly held out her arms, beckoning him to her. “Coffee? Why, that would defeat the purpose.”
Oh, well, he had tried. He could still taste the sweet juice of her on his tongue and he had been restrained enough for one night. He shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt as he approached the bed. But when he came to stand before her, he just stared down at her, making no further move to join her. She was very beautiful. Improbably, trying to bolster his point that she was her own person and could make her own decisions—like getting drunk and then getting a nice hard fuck—he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I admire your track record in your business.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry I can’t say the same about you,” she responded with a loose, charming smile. “I think you’re a cutthroat robber baron.”
Startled by her honesty, he laughed, leaning down to kiss her, intoxicated himself by the soft feel of her lips, the proof that she was so ready, so open to him, her legs slightly parted under the silk of her gown, her nipples visibly outlining her desire for him. But he didn’t kiss her. He pulled back. “How did you come to end up taking over BFD?”
“My parents died.”
He felt a faint stab of kinship. “So did mine.”
“I didn’t think you had any.”
“Ever?” He laughed. “That’s not possible even for me. But what I meant was how did it come to be you that was your father’s successor? Why not one of the others?”
“The others? You mean Allie and Nora? They had no interest in the business.”
“Their husbands then?”
She shook her head vociferously. “Especially not Brian!”
“Your brother maybe?”
“He was too young.”
“Not much younger than you, is he?”
“And I’m not a man, you mean.”
He sat next to her on the bed and ran his hand down her silk-clad hip and she arched, actually arched, into his touch, like some kind of satisfied cat. He almost lost his resolve to slow things down until she was a little more sober. “No,
But she earnestly protested, without defensiveness or hostility, but just as if she were explaining the matter, “No, I don’t think I have,” and she poured and drank a third glass of champagne before she twirled over to the bed and fell back on it with a carefree giggle.
Aaron studied the sprawled white form, her long curls streaming over the edge of the bed. Jesus, had Virginia really had that much to drink? Personally, it’d take a fifth of scotch to have much of an effect on him, but then he’d had the sterling example of many an alcoholic foster father to show him how to hold his hard liquor. The genteel Miss Beckett was undoubtedly not so lucky .
“I think you could use a cup of coffee,” Aaron found himself, incredibly enough, suggesting.
Virginia stretched sensuously, the movement pulling the white silk of her dress tautly against her full tits, the effect agonizingly catalogued by a suddenly wary Aaron. This was ridiculous. Virginia Beckett was a smart, capable, grown woman. She headed her own company, for God’s sake. He didn’t need to patronizingly second-guess her. If she wanted to get roaring drunk before she got laid, who was he to object?
On the other hand, if this was her usual practice, the private detective’s report on her personal life that he had commissioned certainly would have turned something like that up. He was starting to get a bad feeling here.
“Virginia, honey, how about some coffee?”
She turned on her side on the bed to face him and wantonly held out her arms, beckoning him to her. “Coffee? Why, that would defeat the purpose.”
Oh, well, he had tried. He could still taste the sweet juice of her on his tongue and he had been restrained enough for one night. He shrugged out of his tuxedo jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt as he approached the bed. But when he came to stand before her, he just stared down at her, making no further move to join her. She was very beautiful. Improbably, trying to bolster his point that she was her own person and could make her own decisions—like getting drunk and then getting a nice hard fuck—he said, “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how much I admire your track record in your business.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry I can’t say the same about you,” she responded with a loose, charming smile. “I think you’re a cutthroat robber baron.”
Startled by her honesty, he laughed, leaning down to kiss her, intoxicated himself by the soft feel of her lips, the proof that she was so ready, so open to him, her legs slightly parted under the silk of her gown, her nipples visibly outlining her desire for him. But he didn’t kiss her. He pulled back. “How did you come to end up taking over BFD?”
“My parents died.”
He felt a faint stab of kinship. “So did mine.”
“I didn’t think you had any.”
“Ever?” He laughed. “That’s not possible even for me. But what I meant was how did it come to be you that was your father’s successor? Why not one of the others?”
“The others? You mean Allie and Nora? They had no interest in the business.”
“Their husbands then?”
She shook her head vociferously. “Especially not Brian!”
“Your brother maybe?”
“He was too young.”
“Not much younger than you, is he?”
“And I’m not a man, you mean.”
He sat next to her on the bed and ran his hand down her silk-clad hip and she arched, actually arched, into his touch, like some kind of satisfied cat. He almost lost his resolve to slow things down until she was a little more sober. “No,
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