the investigators who served them to maintain a certain corporate image. Cigars, rumpled suits, and hip flasks were definitely out.
But Marty Blake’s face would never be dignified, and he knew it. His hair was too curly, his nose too long, his lips a bit too full. The dark blue eyes would have been all right but they were slightly off-line, as was his nose. Ten years ago, an overeager sophomore had slammed the left side of Marty Blake’s face into the floor of a CCNY gym. There’d been no malice in it. The sophomore had been trying to take him down and he’d been trying to get off the mat. Both had succeeded and the end result, after the fractures had healed, was a somewhat goofy expression, especially when he smiled.
The goofiness didn’t bother Marty Blake. In fact, he considered it an asset, reasoning that when you’re five-nine and weigh a hundred and eighty-five pounds, when you sport an eighteen-inch neck and a forty-six-inch chest, it’s real easy to look like a refrigerator with arms. It’s real easy to look like you spend your weekends collecting for a loan shark.
It was the smile that changed that inevitable first impression. When Marty Blake smiled, when he opened those dimples and crinkled those lopsided blue eyes, corporate clients forgot to be intimidated. He seemed eager, boyish, and (best of all) subservient. When he began to speak about computer searches and surveillance techniques, he added quiet competence to the equation. The end result (the result he strived for) was, I can do your shitwork without challenging your macho self-image.
“Hey, baby, what are you doing up so early? Your appointment isn’t until ten o’clock.”
Blake, as was his habit when dealing with Rebecca Webber, responded to the tone of her voice, rather than to what she actually said. That husky, sleepy quality didn’t mean she wanted to go back to bed. It meant she was horny. Which was exactly why she’d come to him in the first place.
“What I’m doing is preparing my cheeks so they won’t scratch your cheeks.”
“How considerate.”
Blake put the razor back in the medicine chest, then turned around. Rebecca Webber, sleep-rumpled, devoid of makeup, was still in-your-face beautiful. Her eyes were huge and dark, knowledgeable and arrogant. They dominated her face, proclaiming the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing, asking a simple question: Do you?
Her body asked the same question. In an hour, she’d be at the Sutton Athletic Club. Her personal trainer, Carolyn Tannowitz, would be in attendance. Together, they’d evaluate Rebecca’s body the way judges evaluate a show dog. Face, neck, shoulders and arms, breasts, upper and lower abdomen, waist, butt, hips, thighs, and calves. The results never seemed to satisfy Rebecca Webber, but they were perfectly acceptable to Marty Blake.
“Lift that up.”
She was wearing a gold camisole over nothing.
“Untie that.” She flicked a long elegant finger at the towel around his waist.
Blake tugged at the knot that held the towel, watched Rebecca lift the camisole. She did it slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Blake stared at the dark patch of hair, the soft, pink flesh, the carefully toned and tanned belly. The camisole caught on the tips of her breasts, pulled them up, let them drop to bounce softly.
“Amazing, just amazing,” he admitted.
He took her into his arms, felt her nipples against the wiry hairs on his chest, her thighs encircling his right leg, the impossibly hot, wet flesh against his skin.
“Come into the shower,” she said.
Her voice was little more than a hiss, but Marty Blake understood. He allowed himself to be pulled into the shower stall without protest, having long ago realized that Rebecca’s powers had their roots in her own desire. When she wanted him this badly, he followed her like a puppy following its master.
In the shower, with the hot water flowing down between their joined bodies,
But Marty Blake’s face would never be dignified, and he knew it. His hair was too curly, his nose too long, his lips a bit too full. The dark blue eyes would have been all right but they were slightly off-line, as was his nose. Ten years ago, an overeager sophomore had slammed the left side of Marty Blake’s face into the floor of a CCNY gym. There’d been no malice in it. The sophomore had been trying to take him down and he’d been trying to get off the mat. Both had succeeded and the end result, after the fractures had healed, was a somewhat goofy expression, especially when he smiled.
The goofiness didn’t bother Marty Blake. In fact, he considered it an asset, reasoning that when you’re five-nine and weigh a hundred and eighty-five pounds, when you sport an eighteen-inch neck and a forty-six-inch chest, it’s real easy to look like a refrigerator with arms. It’s real easy to look like you spend your weekends collecting for a loan shark.
It was the smile that changed that inevitable first impression. When Marty Blake smiled, when he opened those dimples and crinkled those lopsided blue eyes, corporate clients forgot to be intimidated. He seemed eager, boyish, and (best of all) subservient. When he began to speak about computer searches and surveillance techniques, he added quiet competence to the equation. The end result (the result he strived for) was, I can do your shitwork without challenging your macho self-image.
“Hey, baby, what are you doing up so early? Your appointment isn’t until ten o’clock.”
Blake, as was his habit when dealing with Rebecca Webber, responded to the tone of her voice, rather than to what she actually said. That husky, sleepy quality didn’t mean she wanted to go back to bed. It meant she was horny. Which was exactly why she’d come to him in the first place.
“What I’m doing is preparing my cheeks so they won’t scratch your cheeks.”
“How considerate.”
Blake put the razor back in the medicine chest, then turned around. Rebecca Webber, sleep-rumpled, devoid of makeup, was still in-your-face beautiful. Her eyes were huge and dark, knowledgeable and arrogant. They dominated her face, proclaiming the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing, asking a simple question: Do you?
Her body asked the same question. In an hour, she’d be at the Sutton Athletic Club. Her personal trainer, Carolyn Tannowitz, would be in attendance. Together, they’d evaluate Rebecca’s body the way judges evaluate a show dog. Face, neck, shoulders and arms, breasts, upper and lower abdomen, waist, butt, hips, thighs, and calves. The results never seemed to satisfy Rebecca Webber, but they were perfectly acceptable to Marty Blake.
“Lift that up.”
She was wearing a gold camisole over nothing.
“Untie that.” She flicked a long elegant finger at the towel around his waist.
Blake tugged at the knot that held the towel, watched Rebecca lift the camisole. She did it slowly, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Blake stared at the dark patch of hair, the soft, pink flesh, the carefully toned and tanned belly. The camisole caught on the tips of her breasts, pulled them up, let them drop to bounce softly.
“Amazing, just amazing,” he admitted.
He took her into his arms, felt her nipples against the wiry hairs on his chest, her thighs encircling his right leg, the impossibly hot, wet flesh against his skin.
“Come into the shower,” she said.
Her voice was little more than a hiss, but Marty Blake understood. He allowed himself to be pulled into the shower stall without protest, having long ago realized that Rebecca’s powers had their roots in her own desire. When she wanted him this badly, he followed her like a puppy following its master.
In the shower, with the hot water flowing down between their joined bodies,
Similar Books
