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An Excerpt From: Sin City
© Copyright Lacey Alexander, 2004.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave, Inc.
Diana Marsh had just switched off the light next to her
bed when the phone rang. She reached out in the darkness and put the
receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.” Marc Davenport, her work associate and
long-distance friend. Or was he more than a friend?
Their office-to-office work calls had gotten longer and
more flirtatious recently, and hearing his voice made her smile in the dark.
“Hey.”
“You sound sleepy—were you asleep? Damn, what time is it
there? I totally forgot about the time difference.”
“It’s…”—she switched on the light and sought out her
bedside clock—“…just after eleven, but that’s okay. I only went to bed a
few minutes ago.” In fact, she’d decided to turn in after she’d given up on
him calling, thinking maybe he’d decided it was a bad idea.
“Are you sure, sweetheart?”
So simple, one little word—sweetheart. Despite
herself, just the sound of the endearment, delivered in his rich baritone,
made her breasts ache a little, her pussy tingle with a hint of awareness.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I want to talk.”
It was a first for them—a call outside the office. But
the workload had been light today and a phone call to ask her opinion on the
wording of an entry in the fall catalog had turned into a phone call about
a hundred other things: movies they’d seen lately, music they listened to,
Marc’s hopes of moving to Europe for a while, and even the guy Diana was
currently seeing—although she’d tried to steer away from that topic
quickly. Before they’d finally hung up, Marc had said, “Hey, why don’t I
call you later tonight? We can talk some more.”
She’d agreed, thinking it was safe, harmless. Just a
little fun, just talking with a friend—a friend that sent frissons of heat
echoing through her veins more and more lately.
But she couldn’t think about that—in fact, she had to stop
those feelings before they got out of control.
Because Diana was done being the black sheep of the
family, finished being the Class ‘A’ Bad Girl she’d been her whole life.
She was cleaning up her act, playing it safe for a change.
Surely a late night call from a…friend wouldn’t
interfere with that?
“I thought maybe you’d forgotten,” she said, “or decided
not to call.”
“No way, sweetheart—you know I love to hear your pretty
voice. I’d have called earlier, but I just got home.”
“I hope you weren’t at the office all this time.” Marc
worked at the company’s corporate headquarters in Las
Vegas, where she calculated the time to be after
eight.
“No, nothing like that. I just went out with some guys
after work. A long happy hour.”
“Sounds fun.” Diana didn’t do happy hour anymore
and the pleasure-seeking part of her soul experienced a small bout of envy.
“I wouldn’t have called, though, if I’d known you’d
already put on your jammies and gotten all tucked
in to bed.”
She laughed. “I’m not exactly four years old, you know.
I don’t have a strict bedtime.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m very
aware you’re not a little girl.”
“And just what does that mean?” she asked in a
playful tone. Despite talking on the phone a couple of times a week for the
past year, not to mention sending lots of e-mail—some of it work-related,
some of it chatty—she and Marc had never met.
“I’ve seen your picture on the company website,
sweetheart,” he admitted. She’d seen his, too, and found him utterly
hot—the best-looking thing in a suit and tie she’d ever laid eyes on.
“And?”
“And…” She could almost hear his playful grin. “I liked
what I saw. A lot.”
“What did you like so much?”
“Your gorgeous brown hair with just a hint of auburn,
your hazel eyes and creamy skin, and that sexy pinstripe suit you were
wearing.”
She let out a small giggle. “You can’t even see my suit
below the shoulders in that picture. And besides, I didn’t know pinstripes
were sexy.”
“What can I say? Professional women get me hot.”
Diana didn’t reply, just sat up in bed a little and let herself
get hot at the knowledge that she wasn’t the only one caught up in a bit of
lust here.
“Just please tell me,” he said, “that the skirt is as
short as I like to imagine it is.”
She let her voice go a little husky. “Uh, yeah, it is.
I’m a short skirt kinda girl.”
“Mmm, I like the sound of
that.”
But I’m a good girl, too, she reminded
herself. Marc had the ability to make her forget herself, the self she
intended to be from now on.
“So what kind of pajama girl are you? What are you
wearing right now?”
She sucked in her breath—this was starting to get
steamy. And was about to get even steamier, she had a feeling. “The white
baby-doll tank and panty set from the catalog,” she said, unduly gratified
to know he’d be able to picture the skimpy outfit with ease. They were
employed by Adrianna, Inc., a maker of fine lingerie and loungewear, and
Marc worked on the team that designed and produced the quarterly catalogs.
“Damn, honey, I need to get one of those cell phones
that let you send pictures back and forth.”
She laughed. “What makes you think I’d send you one of
me in my little nighties?”
His chuckle was rich and full-bodied. “Well, maybe you
wouldn’t, not yet. But I bet I could talk you into it.”
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