Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice
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Synopsis
Sometimes Naughty To Xandra Farrel, men are only good for procreation and pleasure-and sometimes they even need help with that. As proprietor of erotic toy manufacturer Wild Women, Inc., she's ready to launch her best product just as soon as she tests it out. Her subject: Beau Hollister, once the sexiest, most popular bad boy in high school, and the man responsible for the worst sexual experience of Xandra's life. If Xandra can have one mind-blowing night with Beau, the commercial success of her product is a sure thing... Sometimes Nice When Beau started his home renovation company, Hire-a-Hunk, being Xandra's boy toy was not what he had in mind, especially since he blew it way back when. Then Xandra turns up the heat and turns on the seduction. As wills clash and hearts collide, can unexpected love prove that being naughty is sometimes the nicest way a girl can have her Beau...and keep him too?
Release date: December 14, 2008
Publisher: Forever
Print pages: 356
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Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice
Kimberly Raye
Chapter One
This was not happening.
She was an attractive, sexy, vibrant sensual woman in the prime of her life. Not to mention she was the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., a leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sexual enhancement products for women. Attractive, sexy, vibrant, sensual women who made their living by selling the whole attractive, sexy, vibrant, sensual image to other women didn't have gray hair.
Not down there.
That's what she told herself as she set aside the King Kong Ultra Deluxe Number Five vibrator she'd been trying out. She always tested her own products during the developmental phase and perfected every flaw before handing a prototype over to her manufacturing division.
Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes and tried to calm her pounding heart.
Maybe it wasn't really gray at all. Maybe it was a very light, silvery blonde hair that just happened to spring up among its very dark counterparts. A fluke, like the one hard, dark, skinny french fry always found at the bottom of a hot, piping order.
Or maybe it was the fact that it was ten o'clock on a Friday night—the Friday night that had followed the Friday morning when her live-in boyfriend of eight years had walked out on her—and she was still working, thanks to the King Kong Five that went into production first thing Monday morning. The new version of a tried-and-true product would, hopefully, bring back the dozen or so accounts Wild Woman had lost in the past few months to Lust, Lust, Baby!, the number-one ranked company in the industry that had recently been attracting even more attention with a new line of multicolored, multispeed, musical vibrators.
At five that afternoon, she'd noticed that the King Kong head wobbled more than it rotated. After six hours of going back and forth with the engineering department, she'd managed to perfect the movement. Trying it out had been the last step before calling it quits. She was tired. Mentally and physically worn out. No wonder her mind was playing tricks on her.
Then again, it could just be the poor lighting in her office, where she not only designed her latest products, but tested them as well. She had no fluorescent squares overhead like the ones that lit the suite of Wild Woman, Inc. Rather, she'd traded the bright fixtures for several small lamps strategically placed throughout the large room. The light played off the dark, mahogany-paneled walls and rich, lush pink carpeting to create an overall effect that was soft, subtle, sensual. The perfect atmosphere to relax and tune in to her body, and unleash the wild woman within.
Usually.
She forced her eyes open, eased her reclining leather chair upright and smoothed her skirt back down. She double-pressed the button that controlled the red privacy light above her door to make sure that it blinked. It was one thing to be disturbed during a trial test, and quite another to face the world when she was this close to a major life crisis.
Close, but not quite there. Not yet.
Pushing to her feet, she rounded the desk. She was not going to panic. Or kick. Or scream. Or cry.
She was going to get a better look.
Fifteen minutes later, she sat on the thick carpet, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her lace panties pushed aside and her legs parted in a V. She adjusted the neck of the desk lamp she'd pulled to the floor with her. A pencil cup toppled over as the cord stretched tight and she went in for a close-up view.
Please, she prayed to the Big Lady Upstairs. Don't do this to me. Not now. I'll change my ways. I'll smile at that snotty lady up on the tenth floor who spilled cappuccino on me last week. I'll even stop scowling at that guy down on the second who wears the blue leisure suit every Thursday and offers to bend me over like a shotgun. I'll give up my pot of coffee every morning and stop eating those Snickers bars for lunch and I will never, ever tell the salesclerk at Saks that I found something on the sales rack when I really didn't.
Hope renewed, she gathered her courage and drew in a deep breath. Sixty watts of light illuminated the area in question. Her gaze zeroed in on the hair and a lump formed in her throat.
It was there and it was gray, and it was now officially the worst day of Xandra Farrel's life.
“Knock, knock!” The deep voice rang out as the door to Xandra's office opened.
Xandra lifted her head from her desk, where she'd collapsed after hauling herself off the floor ten minutes earlier. Her gaze went to the man who stood in her doorway.
Albert Sinclair was the head engineer for Wild Woman, Inc., and a bona fide walking, talking Ken doll. He was tall, tanned, and blond with sparkling blue eyes, a white smile, and an athletic body honed from hours of racquetball.
He'd beaten her more times than she could count. Then again, she'd never really played to win. Just to talk. He could talk and listen even better than he could play, thanks to hours of sensitivity training courtesy of his gay parents. He was kind and compassionate, and he was the closest person to her besides her two older sisters.
“Your light was off, so I figured you'd finished the test run. How did it go?”
“Fine.”
“We still don't think the rotating head is smooth enough and so a few of us are working late on a new gear. Not to mention, we're brainstorming ideas for the Sextravaganza next month. Have you come up with anything?”
“Not yet.” How could she focus on the biggest marketing convention of the year when all she wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never come out again?
“I'm making a midnight food run. Can I bring you anything while I'm out?”
“A gun. Or a noose.”
“I was thinking more like Chinese or Thai.”
“Only if it's loaded with rat poison and guaranteed to put me out of my misery.” She reached for a tissue and swiped at the traitorous tear that slid down her cheek.
Albert's smile faded into a concerned frown. “Oh, honey, what is it? What's wrong? You're not upset about the Sextravaganza are you? You'll come up with something. You always do.”
“I…” Xandra shook her head and blinked. “No, no. I mean, I'm concerned, but I've already started my brainstorming list for the convention.” She eyed the familiar notebook where she kept her prized lists. She penned them for everything, from What to Do Today to Creative Ways to Kill the Competition to New Condom Colors. “Not that I can really think about that right now. Or a new product. And I doubt I'll be able to think about it tomorrow. Or ever. I might be all washed up professionally as well as personally. I might as well call it quits and go file unemployment. I'll lose my new house and my car and end up bagging it on some street corner, my face all wrinkled up from the elements.” At Albert's puzzled stare, she added, “I'm just having a moment, that's all.”
“One of those life-is-passing-me-by-and-I'm-cooped-up-watching-from-the-inside-out moments?” He nodded. “I know the feeling. I had one of those myself not more than a few hours ago when I watched the marketing girls head off to happy hour at one of those hot dance clubs, while I stayed here with the rest of my team to work on the gear.”
“Not that kind. This one's more of a wait!-this-is-going-too-fast! moment. Like when you ride a bike for the first time without the training wheels. Or when you climb behind the wheel of your first car. Or when you climb into the backseat with the hottest guy in high school who turns out to be a total dud in the sack. Or when you find your first gray hair.”
“A gray hair?” Albert walked in, closed the door behind him and perched on the corner of her desk. “Is that what this is all about? Relax, honey. That's why God invented Bjorn over at Bolo's. That man works wonders with bleach and foil. He'll blend it in so you don't even know it's there.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“He did mine and I've got seventeen of the stubborn little sons of bitches.” He pointed near his temple. “Right here. And here. But you can't see even one of them thanks to Bjorn.”
“I'm not doubting his ability. I just don't think the hair in question is long enough to foil.”
He gave her a get-real look. “Why, your hair is way below your shoulders.”
“You've got that right.”
“So stop worrying. All you need is a little careful bleaching and bam! problem solved.”
“I wish it were that easy.” Another tear slid free and then another. “But it's not exactly on my head.”
“Let me get this straight.” He gave her a we'll-get-to-the-bottom-of-this look. “You've got a gray hair, but it's not exactly on your…” Albert's words trailed off as the truth settled in. “Oh. I guess Bjorn's out of the equation now. He only handles the hair up on top.”
She bit her lip and blinked, trying to hold back a new flood of tears. “Not that it's the end of the world, mind you.”
His smile seemed forced. “That's the spirit.”
She blinked frantically. “It's all in the way you look at it.”
“Exactly.”
“Gray, doesn't have to mean old, right?”
“Right.”
“It can also mean mature. Experienced.”
“Seasoned,” Albert offered, handing her another tissue. “Weathered.” At the last word, she cut him a watery stare and he shrugged. “Sorry. Poor word choice. How about…knowledgeable?”
She nodded. “Knowledgeable. That's good.” She dabbed at her eyes and sniffled. “I'm not losing my youth. I'm merely starting a whole new phase of life.”
“You're evolving.”
“Right. My life isn't over just because of one silly gray hair. I mean, I think it's just one.” Panic rushed through her and her gaze caught his. “What if it's more?”
He shook his head. “I'm sure it's just one.”
She nodded and tried to calm her churning stomach. “It's not the end of the world,” she said again. “It's not like I'm going to shrivel up and die just because I have a gray hair and I'm alone for the first time in eight years. Alone doesn't necessarily mean lonely. It can mean free. Untethered. Ripe for the picking.”
Albert nodded. “You're so ripe, you're about to burst—what do you mean,‘alone’?”
“I'm in my prime,” she rushed on, eager to focus on the positive. “I'm enlightened. I'm mature and knowledgeable and weathered.” As soon as the words popped out, a tear squeezed past her lashes. She shook her head. “Hells bells, who am I kidding? I'm past ripe. I'm this close to my expiration date. No wonder Mark packed up his laptop and walked out.”
“He left you? He really left you?”
She nodded and whacked her forehead on the desktop. “Right after he told me I didn't do it for him anymore.”
“He didn't!”
“What does that mean anyway?” She glanced up through tear-filled eyes. “I don't do it for him? If he's talking sex, it's his own fault. He works more than I do, even with the Sextravaganza only a month away. When I initiate, he's always too tired. And when he initiates…” She shook her head. “Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time he initiated.” She slumped back in her chair. “It's me. I'm old and unattractive and fat. Do you know that I've gained ten pounds since I stopped smoking six months ago?” She pulled open her top desk drawer to reveal several Blow Pops, a roll of SweeTARTS, six packages of Bubble Yum, and some Mentos. “All this extra sugar is killing me.”
“Ten extra pounds makes you voluptuous, not fat.”
“What about twenty?”
“Chubby.”
“And thirty?”
“Metabolically challenged, which you're not. You're attractive and nicely rounded, and Mark is an idiot.”
“Mark is perfect. We're perfect. We both like the same things, we both respect each other and we have great sex. Or we had great sex. In the beginning. In between his meetings and business trips.” Her gaze met Albert's. “It's not supposed to happen like this. We had it all.”
“Maybe you just thought you had it all.”
She eyed Albert. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“That you love Mexican food and Thai and any and everything spicy, and Mark lived for tofu.”
“I eat tofu, too.”
“But it doesn't make your mouth water. Deep down in your soul,” he tapped his chest, “you don't lust after tofu. You don't yearn for it. You don't crave it.”
“You're right,” she blurted after a long, contemplative moment. “It's me. I tried to hide it, but Mark finally saw past the front to the spicy food junkie who dwells inside.”
She shook her head. “I'm a fake. And I'm fat. And I'm old.”
“You're not a fake and we've already been over the ten equals voluptuous issue.”
“But I am getting old.”
“You're only twenty-nine.”
“I'm this close to being thirty. Two months and bam! I'm there.”
“It's just another year.”
“It's the year.” She eyed him. “Do you know that a woman's number of fertile eggs decreases by fifty percent when she hits thirty? That's half.”
A knowing light filled his blue gaze. “So that's what this is all about. You want a baby.”
“Of course I do. I mean, not now, at this very moment. But I definitely want one before I hit thirty-five. Or I at least want to be pregnant by then.”
“What catastrophic event happens at thirty-five?”
“The measly fifty percent of fertile eggs I have left decreases by another fifty percent. Each year thereafter, it's downhill. Fast.” She shook her head. “I invested eight years. Eight. Mark and I were stable. Comfortable. We'd actually reached the no makeup phase of our relationship. I could walk around the house in nothing but my ratty warm-ups and sparkling personality.”
“Maybe that's what scared him off.” When she cut him a glance, he grinned, “I'm trying to make you laugh.”
“We were so close to the next step in our relationship,” she went on.
“Marriage?”
“Are you kidding? You know how I feel about marriage. It's the most archaic form of oppression,” Xandra repeated the words that had been drilled into her as a child.
Her widely popular, Harvard-trained sexologist mother and her quiet, conservative conservationist father had been together for thirty-seven years now without benefit of a formal license, their longevity due to her mother's infamous Holy Commitment Trinity. Jacqueline Farrel preached her three-part recipe for relationship success—great sex, shared interests, and mutual respect—every night on her late-night talk show, Get Sexed Up!, and Xandra had learned long ago from watching her own parents in action that her mother was right on the money.
“It's a man's way of enslaving a woman,” Xandra went on. “And I value my freedom far too much to just give it up just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No thank you.”
“I just thought that since Skye finally took the plunge, you might have mellowed to the whole marriage thing.”
Xandra's oldest sister, Skye, had walked down the aisle six months ago and enslaved herself to the hottest, hunkiest driver to ever race a NASCAR series. Worse, she'd been ecstatic about the whole thing. She still was.
“Skye's suffering from a major case of lust,” Xandra told Albert. “It'll wear off eventually and she'll realize she's made a mistake.”
That's what Jacqueline Farrel kept saying to any and everyone who would listen. But Xandra had her doubts. Six months and her sister seemed happier with each day that passed. Content. Complete.
A pang of longing went through her. “My life sucks,” she sobbed. “It's crapola with a capital ‘CRAP.’”
“You'll find someone else.”
“I don't have time to find someone else. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to meet men? Even a single, heterosexual, financially solvent woman with no STDs and all of her teeth? It's nearly impossible. Dorothy from marketing has been dating for the last five years since her divorce and she still hasn't found anyone.”
“Dorothy has all of her teeth?”
“Most of them. She's missing one in the back, but she's getting it capped. Anyhow, that's beside the point. I don't have five years to waste on dating, much less another eight years on top of that to get to my comfort zone.” She shook her head. “My life really sucks.”
“So do something about it.”
“I am. I'm crying, and in another minute I'm going to go for the stash of cigarettes in my desk and start smoking again.”
“That will make the past six months of torture all for naught.”
“I either light up, or head for the candy machine down in the lobby. They've got Snickers bars. Lots of Snickers bars.”
“That's just a temporary fix.”
True. Chocolate, even a lot of chocolate, would only ease the pain. It wouldn't make it go away entirely, and it certainly wouldn't change the fact that she'd been dumped and she had a gray hair and after eight years, she still hadn't managed to push her company into the industry's top spot—she sat at number two.
She had to do something to get her life back on track.
“You're right. I'm sitting here crying when I should be thinking about the future.”
“The convention is next month. We need something to really wow everyone and make those boys over at Lust, Lust, Baby! look like amateurs.”
“I'm wasting my time agonizing over this relationship business when I should be washing my hands of it entirely.”
“I wouldn't go that far. I was thinking more in terms of concentrating on work as a distraction until the pain eases. Then you can get back in the game with a fresh mind and find a new man.”
“Forget it. That's the last thing I want. But I am going to come up with something really spectacular and kick this company up a notch. In the meantime, I'm going to find the man.”
“But you just said you didn't want a man,” Albert reminded her.
“I don't.” She smiled as she reached for her notebook and pen and scribbled the heading for her newest list. “I want the man.” Her smiled widened. “The perfect man to father my baby.”
Chapter TWO
American women are on a quest for the perfect man!” Barbara Donnelli's voice sounded in the doorway of the dressing room.
Jacqueline Farrel glanced up and caught her executive producer's reflection in the large dressing room mirror. The makeup artist who'd been powdering Jacqueline's nose turned to dab at her palette, giving Jacqueline a full view of her producer and the current issue of Entertainment Weekly she held in one perfectly manicured hand.
“He's sweet, sensitive, sexy,” Barbara went on, reading the cover of the issue, “and he's out there waiting for you.” Her gaze met Jacqueline's when she finished. “Guess what I just read.”
“A pile of rubbish used to perpetuate man's desperate quest to be the center of every woman's universe?”
“Theoretically, yes,” Barbara agreed. “But I was speaking in professional terms.” As well as being the executive producer of Get Sexed Up!, she was also one of Jacqueline's biggest supporters and one of the smartest women in the talk show biz. She'd worked on several hit shows, from Oprah to The View, before turning her attention to Jacqueline and the Womanist cause. “This is the front-page headline advertising the review for the first episode of Cherry Chandler's new show G Spot.”
“I saw that show,” said the young brunette who stood in the far corner of the room filling the coffee machine with fresh ground Colombian. Alexis Dupree was a twenty-something graduate of the University of California—Berkeley with a wide smile and an eagerness to please. “It was so cool.” When Barbara and Jacqueline turned et-tu-Brute? looks on her, she shrugged. “I mean, it was okay. It could have been better if it hadn't promoted the whole man as a perfect animal image—which he's not. Not by a long shot. And, of course, the only reason I watched was to see what we're up against—which isn't much since the show is so totally unrealistic.”
“Man, because he is a man, is completely imperfect,” Jacqueline said as she held up her chin for the makeup artist who dabbed her with blush. “Donovan is the closest thing to a perfect man that I've ever come across.” Donovan Martin was her significant other for the past thirty-seven years and the father of her three daughters. “And even he falls sadly short, despite the fact that he makes apple muffins and gives a really great foot massage.”
The muffins and the massages just weren't enough to make up for the fact that she had to put the toilet seat back down and resqueeze the toothpaste from the bottom up and pick up his dirty socks that he insisted on leaving near the coffee table.
Of course, that was only for the six months she actually spent at the home they shared in Georgetown, Texas, the small college town where she'd been born and raised. For the rest of the year, she lived in her own apartment in L.A. where she taped Get Sexed Up! and worked on her new book projects. Meanwhile, Donovan stayed home, lectured at Southwestern University, and added to his mountain of dirty socks.
“Never met a perfect man myself,” said Connie the makeup artist as she reached for a lip pencil from her tackle box. “I've met crazy men, perverted men, funny men, depressing men—the whole shebang—but not a one of them has even come close to perfect. Except maybe that hunky son-in-law of yours.”
Jacqueline ignored the reference to Clint MacAllister, the famous NASCAR driver who'd corrupted her oldest daughter, Skye. She wasn't going to angst anymore over the incident. She still had two daughters left. Her youngest, Xandra, was a walking, talking example of the Holy Commitment Trinity. Her middle daughter, Eve, wasn't as on track as Xandra, but she was single and successful and a Farrel, so there was hope.
“The whole concept of a perfect man is completely far-fetched,” Jacqueline went on. “It's ludicrous.”
“Unfortunately, there are three-and-a-half million viewers who don't agree with you.” Barbara stepped inside the room and walked over to lean against the wall-length vanity. The woman wore a navy suit and trendy pumps. She had classic Italian looks with her dark brown hair, olive complexion and rich brown eyes, and a classic Italian attitude thanks to five older brothers—meaning she was tough. And intimidating.
Especially when she started quoting viewing statistics.
The last time she'd recited statistics, Jacqueline had found her no-nonsense beige and chrome set redecorated in a bright, vivid, blinding red.
She'd been living on Tums ever since.
“Three and a half,” Barbara went on. “That's one-point-five million more viewers than we currently have, and the show's been on less than a month. Cherry Chandler has the right idea.”
“Cherry Chandler has set women back at least a hundred years,” Jacqueline said.
Cherry Chandler was the author of the New York Times best-selling Sensitive series. She was Jacqueline's polar opposite when it came to advising the sexes—namely she urged every woman to bend over backward to please her man. Cherry had written everything from The Sensitive Wife to The Sensitive Girlfriend to The Sensitive Mistress to the current best seller The Sensitive Seductress.
She was the same age as Jacqueline—they'd graduated together at Harvard—but she looked at least ten years younger thanks to a fortune spent on cosmetic surgery. She had long blonde hair and straight white teeth and breasts big enough to float several people to safety should she ever find her Passion Plane—the hot pink 747 she'd bought the previous year—plunging into the ocean during one of her numerous publicity tours.
“Her show is a hit.” At Jacqueline's outraged look, Barbara shrugged. “Look, I'm not agreeing one way or another with her doctrine, per se. I'm talking about the way she promotes that doctrine. Her show is fun and practical. She gives advice that women can use in their daily lives.”
“Urging a woman to apply for financial aid to fill out a few butt cheek dimples so that she looks better in a swim-suit is not practical. Women don't need to hear that nonsense.”
“Maybe not.” Barbara's gaze zeroed in on Jacqueline. “But women don't need to hear a lecture on the dangers of wallpaper either, which you gave last week during Monday's episode.”
“Weren't you listening? Wallpaper isn't dangerous in and of itself,” Jacqueline said before blotting her lips on the Kleenex that Connie handed her. “It's the act of picking out wallpaper that poses the threat. Women, all too often, find themselves bending and molding their tastes to match those of their significant other. It's a terrible process that can become a deadly habit in life. First you're compromising on the wallpaper pattern. Then you're missing your favorite show so that he can watch WWE on Monday nights. Then you're eating pizza when you would rather be having a nice Greek salad with extra olive oil. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, you're rotting away in an emotional prison, while he's enjoying his freedom.”
“So go with paneling instead of wallpaper. Or paint. Or stucco.”
“The point is not the wallpaper. It's to stand firm in your opinions.”
“Which is my point. You can't stand firm in y. . .
This was not happening.
She was an attractive, sexy, vibrant sensual woman in the prime of her life. Not to mention she was the owner and head designer for Wild Woman, Inc., a leading manufacturer of erotic toys and sexual enhancement products for women. Attractive, sexy, vibrant, sensual women who made their living by selling the whole attractive, sexy, vibrant, sensual image to other women didn't have gray hair.
Not down there.
That's what she told herself as she set aside the King Kong Ultra Deluxe Number Five vibrator she'd been trying out. She always tested her own products during the developmental phase and perfected every flaw before handing a prototype over to her manufacturing division.
Her hands trembled as she closed her eyes and tried to calm her pounding heart.
Maybe it wasn't really gray at all. Maybe it was a very light, silvery blonde hair that just happened to spring up among its very dark counterparts. A fluke, like the one hard, dark, skinny french fry always found at the bottom of a hot, piping order.
Or maybe it was the fact that it was ten o'clock on a Friday night—the Friday night that had followed the Friday morning when her live-in boyfriend of eight years had walked out on her—and she was still working, thanks to the King Kong Five that went into production first thing Monday morning. The new version of a tried-and-true product would, hopefully, bring back the dozen or so accounts Wild Woman had lost in the past few months to Lust, Lust, Baby!, the number-one ranked company in the industry that had recently been attracting even more attention with a new line of multicolored, multispeed, musical vibrators.
At five that afternoon, she'd noticed that the King Kong head wobbled more than it rotated. After six hours of going back and forth with the engineering department, she'd managed to perfect the movement. Trying it out had been the last step before calling it quits. She was tired. Mentally and physically worn out. No wonder her mind was playing tricks on her.
Then again, it could just be the poor lighting in her office, where she not only designed her latest products, but tested them as well. She had no fluorescent squares overhead like the ones that lit the suite of Wild Woman, Inc. Rather, she'd traded the bright fixtures for several small lamps strategically placed throughout the large room. The light played off the dark, mahogany-paneled walls and rich, lush pink carpeting to create an overall effect that was soft, subtle, sensual. The perfect atmosphere to relax and tune in to her body, and unleash the wild woman within.
Usually.
She forced her eyes open, eased her reclining leather chair upright and smoothed her skirt back down. She double-pressed the button that controlled the red privacy light above her door to make sure that it blinked. It was one thing to be disturbed during a trial test, and quite another to face the world when she was this close to a major life crisis.
Close, but not quite there. Not yet.
Pushing to her feet, she rounded the desk. She was not going to panic. Or kick. Or scream. Or cry.
She was going to get a better look.
Fifteen minutes later, she sat on the thick carpet, her skirt hiked up to her waist, her lace panties pushed aside and her legs parted in a V. She adjusted the neck of the desk lamp she'd pulled to the floor with her. A pencil cup toppled over as the cord stretched tight and she went in for a close-up view.
Please, she prayed to the Big Lady Upstairs. Don't do this to me. Not now. I'll change my ways. I'll smile at that snotty lady up on the tenth floor who spilled cappuccino on me last week. I'll even stop scowling at that guy down on the second who wears the blue leisure suit every Thursday and offers to bend me over like a shotgun. I'll give up my pot of coffee every morning and stop eating those Snickers bars for lunch and I will never, ever tell the salesclerk at Saks that I found something on the sales rack when I really didn't.
Hope renewed, she gathered her courage and drew in a deep breath. Sixty watts of light illuminated the area in question. Her gaze zeroed in on the hair and a lump formed in her throat.
It was there and it was gray, and it was now officially the worst day of Xandra Farrel's life.
“Knock, knock!” The deep voice rang out as the door to Xandra's office opened.
Xandra lifted her head from her desk, where she'd collapsed after hauling herself off the floor ten minutes earlier. Her gaze went to the man who stood in her doorway.
Albert Sinclair was the head engineer for Wild Woman, Inc., and a bona fide walking, talking Ken doll. He was tall, tanned, and blond with sparkling blue eyes, a white smile, and an athletic body honed from hours of racquetball.
He'd beaten her more times than she could count. Then again, she'd never really played to win. Just to talk. He could talk and listen even better than he could play, thanks to hours of sensitivity training courtesy of his gay parents. He was kind and compassionate, and he was the closest person to her besides her two older sisters.
“Your light was off, so I figured you'd finished the test run. How did it go?”
“Fine.”
“We still don't think the rotating head is smooth enough and so a few of us are working late on a new gear. Not to mention, we're brainstorming ideas for the Sextravaganza next month. Have you come up with anything?”
“Not yet.” How could she focus on the biggest marketing convention of the year when all she wanted to do was crawl into a hole and never come out again?
“I'm making a midnight food run. Can I bring you anything while I'm out?”
“A gun. Or a noose.”
“I was thinking more like Chinese or Thai.”
“Only if it's loaded with rat poison and guaranteed to put me out of my misery.” She reached for a tissue and swiped at the traitorous tear that slid down her cheek.
Albert's smile faded into a concerned frown. “Oh, honey, what is it? What's wrong? You're not upset about the Sextravaganza are you? You'll come up with something. You always do.”
“I…” Xandra shook her head and blinked. “No, no. I mean, I'm concerned, but I've already started my brainstorming list for the convention.” She eyed the familiar notebook where she kept her prized lists. She penned them for everything, from What to Do Today to Creative Ways to Kill the Competition to New Condom Colors. “Not that I can really think about that right now. Or a new product. And I doubt I'll be able to think about it tomorrow. Or ever. I might be all washed up professionally as well as personally. I might as well call it quits and go file unemployment. I'll lose my new house and my car and end up bagging it on some street corner, my face all wrinkled up from the elements.” At Albert's puzzled stare, she added, “I'm just having a moment, that's all.”
“One of those life-is-passing-me-by-and-I'm-cooped-up-watching-from-the-inside-out moments?” He nodded. “I know the feeling. I had one of those myself not more than a few hours ago when I watched the marketing girls head off to happy hour at one of those hot dance clubs, while I stayed here with the rest of my team to work on the gear.”
“Not that kind. This one's more of a wait!-this-is-going-too-fast! moment. Like when you ride a bike for the first time without the training wheels. Or when you climb behind the wheel of your first car. Or when you climb into the backseat with the hottest guy in high school who turns out to be a total dud in the sack. Or when you find your first gray hair.”
“A gray hair?” Albert walked in, closed the door behind him and perched on the corner of her desk. “Is that what this is all about? Relax, honey. That's why God invented Bjorn over at Bolo's. That man works wonders with bleach and foil. He'll blend it in so you don't even know it's there.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
“He did mine and I've got seventeen of the stubborn little sons of bitches.” He pointed near his temple. “Right here. And here. But you can't see even one of them thanks to Bjorn.”
“I'm not doubting his ability. I just don't think the hair in question is long enough to foil.”
He gave her a get-real look. “Why, your hair is way below your shoulders.”
“You've got that right.”
“So stop worrying. All you need is a little careful bleaching and bam! problem solved.”
“I wish it were that easy.” Another tear slid free and then another. “But it's not exactly on my head.”
“Let me get this straight.” He gave her a we'll-get-to-the-bottom-of-this look. “You've got a gray hair, but it's not exactly on your…” Albert's words trailed off as the truth settled in. “Oh. I guess Bjorn's out of the equation now. He only handles the hair up on top.”
She bit her lip and blinked, trying to hold back a new flood of tears. “Not that it's the end of the world, mind you.”
His smile seemed forced. “That's the spirit.”
She blinked frantically. “It's all in the way you look at it.”
“Exactly.”
“Gray, doesn't have to mean old, right?”
“Right.”
“It can also mean mature. Experienced.”
“Seasoned,” Albert offered, handing her another tissue. “Weathered.” At the last word, she cut him a watery stare and he shrugged. “Sorry. Poor word choice. How about…knowledgeable?”
She nodded. “Knowledgeable. That's good.” She dabbed at her eyes and sniffled. “I'm not losing my youth. I'm merely starting a whole new phase of life.”
“You're evolving.”
“Right. My life isn't over just because of one silly gray hair. I mean, I think it's just one.” Panic rushed through her and her gaze caught his. “What if it's more?”
He shook his head. “I'm sure it's just one.”
She nodded and tried to calm her churning stomach. “It's not the end of the world,” she said again. “It's not like I'm going to shrivel up and die just because I have a gray hair and I'm alone for the first time in eight years. Alone doesn't necessarily mean lonely. It can mean free. Untethered. Ripe for the picking.”
Albert nodded. “You're so ripe, you're about to burst—what do you mean,‘alone’?”
“I'm in my prime,” she rushed on, eager to focus on the positive. “I'm enlightened. I'm mature and knowledgeable and weathered.” As soon as the words popped out, a tear squeezed past her lashes. She shook her head. “Hells bells, who am I kidding? I'm past ripe. I'm this close to my expiration date. No wonder Mark packed up his laptop and walked out.”
“He left you? He really left you?”
She nodded and whacked her forehead on the desktop. “Right after he told me I didn't do it for him anymore.”
“He didn't!”
“What does that mean anyway?” She glanced up through tear-filled eyes. “I don't do it for him? If he's talking sex, it's his own fault. He works more than I do, even with the Sextravaganza only a month away. When I initiate, he's always too tired. And when he initiates…” She shook her head. “Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time he initiated.” She slumped back in her chair. “It's me. I'm old and unattractive and fat. Do you know that I've gained ten pounds since I stopped smoking six months ago?” She pulled open her top desk drawer to reveal several Blow Pops, a roll of SweeTARTS, six packages of Bubble Yum, and some Mentos. “All this extra sugar is killing me.”
“Ten extra pounds makes you voluptuous, not fat.”
“What about twenty?”
“Chubby.”
“And thirty?”
“Metabolically challenged, which you're not. You're attractive and nicely rounded, and Mark is an idiot.”
“Mark is perfect. We're perfect. We both like the same things, we both respect each other and we have great sex. Or we had great sex. In the beginning. In between his meetings and business trips.” Her gaze met Albert's. “It's not supposed to happen like this. We had it all.”
“Maybe you just thought you had it all.”
She eyed Albert. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“That you love Mexican food and Thai and any and everything spicy, and Mark lived for tofu.”
“I eat tofu, too.”
“But it doesn't make your mouth water. Deep down in your soul,” he tapped his chest, “you don't lust after tofu. You don't yearn for it. You don't crave it.”
“You're right,” she blurted after a long, contemplative moment. “It's me. I tried to hide it, but Mark finally saw past the front to the spicy food junkie who dwells inside.”
She shook her head. “I'm a fake. And I'm fat. And I'm old.”
“You're not a fake and we've already been over the ten equals voluptuous issue.”
“But I am getting old.”
“You're only twenty-nine.”
“I'm this close to being thirty. Two months and bam! I'm there.”
“It's just another year.”
“It's the year.” She eyed him. “Do you know that a woman's number of fertile eggs decreases by fifty percent when she hits thirty? That's half.”
A knowing light filled his blue gaze. “So that's what this is all about. You want a baby.”
“Of course I do. I mean, not now, at this very moment. But I definitely want one before I hit thirty-five. Or I at least want to be pregnant by then.”
“What catastrophic event happens at thirty-five?”
“The measly fifty percent of fertile eggs I have left decreases by another fifty percent. Each year thereafter, it's downhill. Fast.” She shook her head. “I invested eight years. Eight. Mark and I were stable. Comfortable. We'd actually reached the no makeup phase of our relationship. I could walk around the house in nothing but my ratty warm-ups and sparkling personality.”
“Maybe that's what scared him off.” When she cut him a glance, he grinned, “I'm trying to make you laugh.”
“We were so close to the next step in our relationship,” she went on.
“Marriage?”
“Are you kidding? You know how I feel about marriage. It's the most archaic form of oppression,” Xandra repeated the words that had been drilled into her as a child.
Her widely popular, Harvard-trained sexologist mother and her quiet, conservative conservationist father had been together for thirty-seven years now without benefit of a formal license, their longevity due to her mother's infamous Holy Commitment Trinity. Jacqueline Farrel preached her three-part recipe for relationship success—great sex, shared interests, and mutual respect—every night on her late-night talk show, Get Sexed Up!, and Xandra had learned long ago from watching her own parents in action that her mother was right on the money.
“It's a man's way of enslaving a woman,” Xandra went on. “And I value my freedom far too much to just give it up just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “No thank you.”
“I just thought that since Skye finally took the plunge, you might have mellowed to the whole marriage thing.”
Xandra's oldest sister, Skye, had walked down the aisle six months ago and enslaved herself to the hottest, hunkiest driver to ever race a NASCAR series. Worse, she'd been ecstatic about the whole thing. She still was.
“Skye's suffering from a major case of lust,” Xandra told Albert. “It'll wear off eventually and she'll realize she's made a mistake.”
That's what Jacqueline Farrel kept saying to any and everyone who would listen. But Xandra had her doubts. Six months and her sister seemed happier with each day that passed. Content. Complete.
A pang of longing went through her. “My life sucks,” she sobbed. “It's crapola with a capital ‘CRAP.’”
“You'll find someone else.”
“I don't have time to find someone else. Do you know how hard it is for a woman to meet men? Even a single, heterosexual, financially solvent woman with no STDs and all of her teeth? It's nearly impossible. Dorothy from marketing has been dating for the last five years since her divorce and she still hasn't found anyone.”
“Dorothy has all of her teeth?”
“Most of them. She's missing one in the back, but she's getting it capped. Anyhow, that's beside the point. I don't have five years to waste on dating, much less another eight years on top of that to get to my comfort zone.” She shook her head. “My life really sucks.”
“So do something about it.”
“I am. I'm crying, and in another minute I'm going to go for the stash of cigarettes in my desk and start smoking again.”
“That will make the past six months of torture all for naught.”
“I either light up, or head for the candy machine down in the lobby. They've got Snickers bars. Lots of Snickers bars.”
“That's just a temporary fix.”
True. Chocolate, even a lot of chocolate, would only ease the pain. It wouldn't make it go away entirely, and it certainly wouldn't change the fact that she'd been dumped and she had a gray hair and after eight years, she still hadn't managed to push her company into the industry's top spot—she sat at number two.
She had to do something to get her life back on track.
“You're right. I'm sitting here crying when I should be thinking about the future.”
“The convention is next month. We need something to really wow everyone and make those boys over at Lust, Lust, Baby! look like amateurs.”
“I'm wasting my time agonizing over this relationship business when I should be washing my hands of it entirely.”
“I wouldn't go that far. I was thinking more in terms of concentrating on work as a distraction until the pain eases. Then you can get back in the game with a fresh mind and find a new man.”
“Forget it. That's the last thing I want. But I am going to come up with something really spectacular and kick this company up a notch. In the meantime, I'm going to find the man.”
“But you just said you didn't want a man,” Albert reminded her.
“I don't.” She smiled as she reached for her notebook and pen and scribbled the heading for her newest list. “I want the man.” Her smiled widened. “The perfect man to father my baby.”
Chapter TWO
American women are on a quest for the perfect man!” Barbara Donnelli's voice sounded in the doorway of the dressing room.
Jacqueline Farrel glanced up and caught her executive producer's reflection in the large dressing room mirror. The makeup artist who'd been powdering Jacqueline's nose turned to dab at her palette, giving Jacqueline a full view of her producer and the current issue of Entertainment Weekly she held in one perfectly manicured hand.
“He's sweet, sensitive, sexy,” Barbara went on, reading the cover of the issue, “and he's out there waiting for you.” Her gaze met Jacqueline's when she finished. “Guess what I just read.”
“A pile of rubbish used to perpetuate man's desperate quest to be the center of every woman's universe?”
“Theoretically, yes,” Barbara agreed. “But I was speaking in professional terms.” As well as being the executive producer of Get Sexed Up!, she was also one of Jacqueline's biggest supporters and one of the smartest women in the talk show biz. She'd worked on several hit shows, from Oprah to The View, before turning her attention to Jacqueline and the Womanist cause. “This is the front-page headline advertising the review for the first episode of Cherry Chandler's new show G Spot.”
“I saw that show,” said the young brunette who stood in the far corner of the room filling the coffee machine with fresh ground Colombian. Alexis Dupree was a twenty-something graduate of the University of California—Berkeley with a wide smile and an eagerness to please. “It was so cool.” When Barbara and Jacqueline turned et-tu-Brute? looks on her, she shrugged. “I mean, it was okay. It could have been better if it hadn't promoted the whole man as a perfect animal image—which he's not. Not by a long shot. And, of course, the only reason I watched was to see what we're up against—which isn't much since the show is so totally unrealistic.”
“Man, because he is a man, is completely imperfect,” Jacqueline said as she held up her chin for the makeup artist who dabbed her with blush. “Donovan is the closest thing to a perfect man that I've ever come across.” Donovan Martin was her significant other for the past thirty-seven years and the father of her three daughters. “And even he falls sadly short, despite the fact that he makes apple muffins and gives a really great foot massage.”
The muffins and the massages just weren't enough to make up for the fact that she had to put the toilet seat back down and resqueeze the toothpaste from the bottom up and pick up his dirty socks that he insisted on leaving near the coffee table.
Of course, that was only for the six months she actually spent at the home they shared in Georgetown, Texas, the small college town where she'd been born and raised. For the rest of the year, she lived in her own apartment in L.A. where she taped Get Sexed Up! and worked on her new book projects. Meanwhile, Donovan stayed home, lectured at Southwestern University, and added to his mountain of dirty socks.
“Never met a perfect man myself,” said Connie the makeup artist as she reached for a lip pencil from her tackle box. “I've met crazy men, perverted men, funny men, depressing men—the whole shebang—but not a one of them has even come close to perfect. Except maybe that hunky son-in-law of yours.”
Jacqueline ignored the reference to Clint MacAllister, the famous NASCAR driver who'd corrupted her oldest daughter, Skye. She wasn't going to angst anymore over the incident. She still had two daughters left. Her youngest, Xandra, was a walking, talking example of the Holy Commitment Trinity. Her middle daughter, Eve, wasn't as on track as Xandra, but she was single and successful and a Farrel, so there was hope.
“The whole concept of a perfect man is completely far-fetched,” Jacqueline went on. “It's ludicrous.”
“Unfortunately, there are three-and-a-half million viewers who don't agree with you.” Barbara stepped inside the room and walked over to lean against the wall-length vanity. The woman wore a navy suit and trendy pumps. She had classic Italian looks with her dark brown hair, olive complexion and rich brown eyes, and a classic Italian attitude thanks to five older brothers—meaning she was tough. And intimidating.
Especially when she started quoting viewing statistics.
The last time she'd recited statistics, Jacqueline had found her no-nonsense beige and chrome set redecorated in a bright, vivid, blinding red.
She'd been living on Tums ever since.
“Three and a half,” Barbara went on. “That's one-point-five million more viewers than we currently have, and the show's been on less than a month. Cherry Chandler has the right idea.”
“Cherry Chandler has set women back at least a hundred years,” Jacqueline said.
Cherry Chandler was the author of the New York Times best-selling Sensitive series. She was Jacqueline's polar opposite when it came to advising the sexes—namely she urged every woman to bend over backward to please her man. Cherry had written everything from The Sensitive Wife to The Sensitive Girlfriend to The Sensitive Mistress to the current best seller The Sensitive Seductress.
She was the same age as Jacqueline—they'd graduated together at Harvard—but she looked at least ten years younger thanks to a fortune spent on cosmetic surgery. She had long blonde hair and straight white teeth and breasts big enough to float several people to safety should she ever find her Passion Plane—the hot pink 747 she'd bought the previous year—plunging into the ocean during one of her numerous publicity tours.
“Her show is a hit.” At Jacqueline's outraged look, Barbara shrugged. “Look, I'm not agreeing one way or another with her doctrine, per se. I'm talking about the way she promotes that doctrine. Her show is fun and practical. She gives advice that women can use in their daily lives.”
“Urging a woman to apply for financial aid to fill out a few butt cheek dimples so that she looks better in a swim-suit is not practical. Women don't need to hear that nonsense.”
“Maybe not.” Barbara's gaze zeroed in on Jacqueline. “But women don't need to hear a lecture on the dangers of wallpaper either, which you gave last week during Monday's episode.”
“Weren't you listening? Wallpaper isn't dangerous in and of itself,” Jacqueline said before blotting her lips on the Kleenex that Connie handed her. “It's the act of picking out wallpaper that poses the threat. Women, all too often, find themselves bending and molding their tastes to match those of their significant other. It's a terrible process that can become a deadly habit in life. First you're compromising on the wallpaper pattern. Then you're missing your favorite show so that he can watch WWE on Monday nights. Then you're eating pizza when you would rather be having a nice Greek salad with extra olive oil. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, you're rotting away in an emotional prison, while he's enjoying his freedom.”
“So go with paneling instead of wallpaper. Or paint. Or stucco.”
“The point is not the wallpaper. It's to stand firm in your opinions.”
“Which is my point. You can't stand firm in y. . .
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Sometimes Naughty, Sometimes Nice
Kimberly Raye
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