Chapter Eighteen

Just to be sure, Becca took another long glance in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. If not for the familiar though astonished green eyes staring back at her, she’d swear she was looking at a stranger—a very hot stranger.

Gone were the frizzy curls that more often looked like a hair-don’t than a hairdo. In its place were bone-straight locks cascading down her back, framing a more polished and dramatic face. All thanks to the wonder of the modern beauty industry—a transforming combo of relaxer and a ceramic flat iron; waxed and reshaped brows; and two hours spent at the Mac cosmetic counter, learning how to apply makeup like a pro.

Also abolished for the evening were her usual work clothes. Instead of the efficient receptionist uniform Rebecca donned each day—slacks and a top—Becca had her party clothes on. The outfit she’d chosen for her official WMS launch was a figure-skimming dress with a seductive twist shoulder and plunging neckline that attractively showcased her breasts and trademark starfish necklace, and a flirty, leg-enhancing asymmetrical flared skirt. It cost more than she could afford, but it was well worth the investment. Its color, that of Caribbean blue water, set off her natural golden tan, showcasing her exotic looks and burgeoning “sexual charisma.” Gone too were the matronly pumps, replaced by the Pia Jamison–sanctioned strappy high heels.

This new look had been a work in progress since Becca’s return from San Francisco. She’d come back to Chicago buoyed by her success at the dash-dating event and ready to put her new flirting skills to the test. Her first weekend home, she and her best friend, Cris Yang, had hit Crème de la Crème, the favorite see-and-be-seen spot of the young employees at the Bonaire Advertising Agency. She’d dressed in the same jeans and tight sweater ensemble she’d worn to Suede, but as usual, it was the Julie type hottie magnets who had commanded the place and the attention.

After that less-than-successful evening, Becca had decided to temporarily withdraw from the social scene. Largely fueling this decision was the need to recuperate financially. The workshop in San Francisco had drained her bank account, and she didn’t have the monetary resources to fund a proper social life. Not when drinks were upwards of ten dollars a pop and her initial foray into Crème had proven her wardrobe to be way less than effective. Now, several months later, and after working all the overtime hours she could manage, the monetary sinkhole she’d created by going out west had been reduced to a more manageable pothole. And after hours poring over fashion magazines, and with the help of Cris and his talented friends, Rebecca’s transformation was complete and Becca was ready to roll.

“Rebecca, let’s go,” Cris prompted through the ladies’ room door. “Happy hour doesn’t last forever.”

“I told you, it’s Becca,” she corrected Cris as she stepped past him.

“My bad. Give the girl a little fresh air and it’s good-bye cornfields,” he teased.

“Not every Iowan grows corn, you idiot.”

“Touchy, touchy. Come on. If you’re finally going to unleash all that explosive weaponry across the Windy City, we’d better get a move on.”

Twenty minutes later they arrived at Crème de la Crème at the peak of Friday’s happy hour. As was the plan, both went their separate ways. Becca walked into the sea of big-city sophistication and for the first time ever, felt like she belonged. Her new look was attracting a lot of coveted attention—from men and women alike—and she felt her confidence level rising through the roof.

Smile, eyes, laugh, listen, she reminded herself, planting a slight smile on her face as she began her slow trek around the room on her way to the bar. The trail of eyes following her moving tail felt incredible, and for the first time in her life, Becca Vossel felt sexy, seductive, and powerful.

“You look like a girl who would like silk panties,” a male voice suggested. Becca turned to find a young Sean Penn look-alike smiling coyly in her face.

Okay, that’s real subtle, she thought, though she was oddly flattered. Preppy in a surfer dude kind of way, he wasn’t really her type, but he was cute enough for Becca to practice on, to work the kinks out of her flirt game until something more interesting came along.

“Whoa. That’s kinda personal, especially since I don’t even know your name,” Becca said, giving him Joey Clements’s suggested three-second glance and closed-lip smirk.

“Gil,” he said. “I didn’t realize cocktail preferences were so personal—silk panties is a drink. Wait, you didn’t think I would actually use such a cheesy pick-up line, did you?” he asked, his voice perfectly pitched between irony and sincerity.

Becca’s response was delayed by a laugh and an exaggerated shoulder shrug. “I’m Becca.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl. So what can I get you to drink, Becca?”

“I’ll have a ginger ale.”

“Ginger ale is for kids, not sexy women. Come on, let me buy you a real drink,” Gil pressed, winking at her.

“Okay,” Becca relented, not wanting him to think she was neither grown nor sexy.

“Jimmy, a pair of silk panties.”

Gil continued to stand beside her stool while they waited for their drinks. Becca could smell his woodsy cologne as she studied his one hand extended across the counter. He tapped his index finger, adorned with a thick sterling silver band, to the beat of the piped-in music.

“Whoa. I like your ring,” Becca said. “What is that design?”

“Flames. Here, take a look,” he said, putting his finger in his mouth and slowly removing the ring as he looked into her eyes. It was a move as seductive as it was sleazy, and Becca marveled at his audacity.

“Nice.” Becca was saved from making any further comments by the arrival of their cocktails. She was careful to sip her drink, but as had happened at Suede, within fifteen minutes the sweet drink of pure alcohol rushed straight to her head, leaving Becca feeling tipsy.

“So, sexy Becky, it’s getting awfully noisy in here. I have access to the VIP lounge. Would you like to go upstairs so we can talk?” Gil asked, taking her right hand and running his left up her arm.

“Where?”

“Upstairs,” Gil cut in, taking advantage of the noise and Becca’s slightly altered state. “Now come on, sexy, let’s go upstairs and be VIPs.” Gil pulled her from the chair. “A hot girl like you shouldn’t be down here with all the regulars. You’re a superstar. You deserve special treatment.”

Gil had said the two magic words—hot and star—that bent Becca’s will and allowed her to acquiesce. The two climbed the stairs to the VIP lounge and were stopped by a velvet rope blocking entry. Gil flashed some kind of card and the bouncer pulled back the rope, giving them access to the dark and smoky private room. Scattered around the place were various conversation areas, occupied by couples and threesomes—some talking, others communicating in much more personal ways. Techno lounge music filled the space, and Becca could feel the pulse of the beat in her chest.

Gil led her over to a vacant love seat and ordered two more drinks. “Come closer so we can talk,” he insisted. Becca smiled and scooted over until their hips were touching.

“Mmm, you smell good, like vanilla and chocolate,” he said, brushing the hair off her shoulder and nuzzling her neck. “Makes me want to lick you,” he buzzed in her ear. The pleasurable sensations that ran through Becca’s body were also unsettling—as if her body shouldn’t feel like this with someone she didn’t know. “What kind of perfume is that?”

“I thought we came up to talk,” she insisted in a soft voice, and accompanying her words with a gentle push.

“We are talking. I asked you a question.”

“It’s from Jessica Simpson’s Desserts.”

“Yummy,” Gil said as he fiddled with the starfish dangling in her cleavage. His fingers made light contact with her breasts, sending more logic-blocking waves to her head.

“So, Gil, what do you like to do?” Becca asked, fighting to stay in control.

“Kiss pretty girls,” he said as he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his. Becca was initially shocked by his action, but the part of her coaxing her to pull away was being out muscled by another insisting that she enjoy the moment. Her resistance soused, Becca had no choice but to relax and soak in the experience.

Uninvited but not spurned, a drunk Gil continued to explore Becca’s mouth with a heavy tongue. His kiss was penetrating and very wet, and Becca found herself wanting to reach for a cocktail napkin. She tried to discreetly wipe the saliva from her chin with her hand as Gil began to kiss her neck and nibble her earlobe.

“You’ve got me so fucking turned on, Becky. Check it out,” he suggested as he took her hand and placed it on his crotch. Becca felt Gil’s erection through the denim and quickly removed her hand.

“I think I’d better go home now,” she told him as she tried to will herself sober.

“Oh, Becky, please, no. I am so fucking hot right now. You did this to me,” he said, cupping his hard dick. “You have to stay, please. Let’s have a little fun. You are so amazing. Please. Don’t leave now.” There was a desperation in his voice that intrigued her. As she had all evening, Becca felt two disparate emotions—annoyed because he kept getting her name wrong but assumed she wanted to touch his crotch, and powerful because she had managed to excite a man to the point of begging. The idea had her curious, and she leaned in to Gil’s body and delivered a long, passionate kiss, feeling him melt under her influence. Becca practiced kissing, experimenting with depth and intensity, judging their effectiveness by Gil’s reactions. She allowed him to fondle her breasts through the fabric of her dress, thrilled not only by the arousal rising between her legs but the power blooming there as well.

It was as if she were having an out-of-body experience. As Becca sat on the couch in a public place, making out with a man she didn’t know, Rebecca looked down, studying her technique, her body’s reactions, and her basic state of mind.

“I gotta go,” she insisted, pushing away after Gil’s hand migrated beneath her dress.

Becca had had enough practical weapons training for today. It was time to go home. She’d come tonight to test her WMS skills, but through her encounter with Gil had found a new part of herself. This part was sexy and daring. This part could make a man beg. This part of her deserved further inspection, but with a man she wanted to kiss, not with one who simply took the liberty. Someone special.