A Grand Seduction Page 5

  She took a second squirt of Paul Mitchell to task, rubbing her scalp harder than was necessary. The four women—not Twyla so much, as she hadn’t the stomach for it—had crafted a plan and gone over it a hundred times. Fran herself paved the way for Ridelle’s sluttish re-entry to Bruce’s life by asking him to allow Twyla and Ridelle to assist her with a Memorial Day dinner party he’d commanded Fran to throw. Luckily—or not, depending on her mood at the moment, he’d agreed.

  She shook her head as she scrubbed. Fire the cook, throw a party and threaten a non-domestic wife that it better be a success. Oh, and for a fun little twist, tack on an extra ten people at the last minute. What an asshole.

  Twyla was the real kitchen whiz, which is why she was riding along on this Wild Kingdom adventure. Bruce had no way of knowing that Ridelle was as inept as his beloved when it came to fine cuisine, but it had been decided that her role would be as serving maid, anyway. That would provide ample opportunity to chat up the man of her nightmares while Fran was busy playing dutiful wife.

  Tonight’s real dish on the menu would be Ridelle, served hot enough to hopefully renew Bruce’s interest without causing suspicion. A lot hinged on her ability to succeed tonight. Too bad that when it came to being around men, she felt about as seductive and charming as a snail turned inside out.

  “You just have to get your head into the role,” she told herself aloud. “Like Dom said. It’s not you. Just make believe.”

  Get into the role.

  Banishing thoughts of hairy ears and hard marble floors, Ridelle closed her eyes and imagined prowling the dinner party, sexy and self-assured in her role as experienced seductress. Hands full of slippery shampoo lather stroked down from the hollow of her throat, over pert breasts, pausing to circle around the slight upturn where her nipples rode high. Oblivious to her other concerns, they rose hard and unafraid against the soft slick of soapy lather. Tipping her head back to indulge the sensation without rivulets of soap finding liquid brown eyes, her right hand slid down her stomach in search of the pulsing warmth that the exploration of her breasts had awakened. A soft moan caught in her throat as her fingers dipped into the join between her thighs, where a practiced circular motion soon set the trapped moan free.

  The sound of her enjoyment startled her reverie, and nervous energy broke the moment. Her hands fell away from their survey of nearby erogenous zones. Oh well. A bit of unrelieved tension might boost her efforts tonight. Not that she was suffering a critical shortage of tension.

  Rinsing, conditioning, and a careful double shave took an additional fifteen minutes, the last five conducted in decreasing temperatures as hot water exhausted itself. When at last she stepped from the tub shower, the mirror had all but vanished and her bathroom looked like the sauna room at the country club.

  Wrapping her head in a cocoa brown towel turban, she threw open the bathroom door to shoo out excess steam. Funny she should think about the club in the Poconos. In a way, that’s where this all began—at the club where she and Andy Franks’ parents had dragged their respective broods once a week. Andy was older by a few years, but had waltzed Ridelle around the parquet floor when they were still kids. Nothing sexy. It was like having a kinder version of her brothers turning her around the dance floor. When Andy’s new girlfriend arrived, Ridelle immediately liked Twyla’s polite and unpretentious demeanor. She was nothing like the trampy twits who put on airs as obnoxious as their layers of jewelry. The Twit Team, Ridelle called them when in a more forgiving state of mind. Otherwise, the nickname involved a change of vowel that was more R-rated. They in turn shunned Ridelle as a poor cousin outsider—an ousting she was quite happy to uphold.

  An up and comer in New York finance joined the club as well—Bruce Myers. An invitation to his employer’s posh Manhattan penthouse for a “casual” cocktail party changed the face of Ridelle’s social life. It was there that she and Twyla, sequestered in a formal dining room between gold-veined walls and a spread of caviar on toast points, met Dominique Trudeaux. Though a diamond cocktail ring resembling the ice cluster in her vodka and a black cloud of shoulder-to-toe jet beads might have automatically sorted her in with the other snooty, back-patting guests who swirled brandy in snifters and spoke with exaggerated importance, their hostess blew the girls right out of their silk nylons.

  Ridelle crossed the burnt orange and brown bedroom to the walk-in closet, pulling off the towel wrapped around her midsection as she laughed at the memory. She and Twyla had been watching a woman’s mini Schnauzer repeatedly poke his head out of her lame handbag to steal oysters and bacon-wrapped scallops right off her plate, which she continued eating from as well.

  Ridelle had made a face. “Ugh. Quite the party manners.”

  Twyla laughed. “I don’t know, did you see her sucking up deviled eggs earlier? The dog has better manners.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen worse party manners than that.”

  The girls jumped at the polished voice, and Ridelle almost dropped her plate. The hostess stood alongside, ruby mouth set in a tight slash.

  Twyla reacted first, voice infused with guilt. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to offend anyone.”

  Dominique lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper. “She was actually picking teeth with one of my good shrimp forks before you arrived. The dog’s teeth.”

  The pair stared at her for a long moment, then broke into easy laughter. It was these three who stuck an honorary middle finger up at the country club experience thereafter, meeting for lunch elsewhere. Fran came along soon after, a bright-eyed, confident redhead Bruce brought to a party at the Walters’ estate. He waited four years to pop the question and had sandbagged for an additional three before Fran walked down the aisle. Now, two years after Fran had dressed Ridelle in a ridiculous froth of peach bridesmaid chiffon, that long-awaited marriage was about to come to a bitter and grinding halt. At Ridelle’s own hand, no less.

  She stared into the closet, despite knowing the outfit jointly selected for her trampy debut was tucked right up front in a wispy dry cleaners bag. Yanking the hanger off the rod, she twisted around to the full-length mirror inside the closet door and held the bag-covered garment against herself. “You can do this. You’re a vixen. An animal of unimaginable sexual magnitude.” She rolled her eyes at her reflection. “Right. If your pals only knew the truth.”

  An hour later, Ridelle stared with fascinated horror at the transformation. Her eyes were rimmed in kohl, shadows of taupe and cream accentuating a dreamy, heavy-lidded look. Full lips were moist with a slick of magenta, and her usual straight brown locks fell in soft waves just tickling the tops of bare shoulders. A single pearl dotted each ear, and a matching pendant fell like an arrow pointing the way to modest, but well displayed cleavage.

  The dress she’d worn only once and vowed never again, but here she was, all five-feet six inches of her almost wearing what her mother had dubbed the “man magnet.” She’d bought it for Ridelle’s twenty-fifth birthday in hopes that scores of country club suitors would stampede. Done in abstract splashes of pink, black and white silk, the halter bodice plunged bikini style to a snug band of fabric under her breasts, where it clung for dear life along dangerous curves to mid-thigh. There, the fabric flared outward in gentle folds that fell to just below the knee.

  Once again, the revolving door of her will spun around to the negative. Her heart drummed out a rumba, a beat befitting her dress style. She shook her head at this slut-tastic version of herself in the mirror. “I can’t do it.” She gaped at a woman that was the antithesis of herself in the mirror. Much as she loved Fran and wanted to help, she couldn’t kid any of them. Time to do everyone a favor and stay home, before she blew the whole plan out the whale’s hole.

  She reached slender arms behind herself to unhook the halter at the back of her neck, picturing Fran racing around at her place right now, fraught with preparations and daring to hope for a way out. She needed a life boat, but Ridelle was fresh out of inflatable rubber. Still, the thought stayed h
er hands. She couldn’t just beg off with a phone call, not for something like this. Could she?

  Ridelle tottered on strappy heels over to where a wicker table lamp highlighted the old slimline on her cluttered walnut night stand. For a long moment, she stared at the phone. Fran needed moral support, if nothing else. She was as nervous about pulling off the party as she was about the scheme embedded within it.

  Damn. She’d just changed sides again.

  Fine, so she would show up to lend whatever clumsy hand or crying towel she could muster, but the first order of business was to explain why she couldn’t go through with the rest. Fran would understand. Hopefully better than Ridelle understood it herself.

  Chapter Six

  Forty minutes down the PA-413 from Ridelle’s apartment in Quakertown lay Upper Makefield, where a smattering of farms and countryside proved a deceptive front for the affluence enjoyed well off the highway grid. Here, many retreated from the grit and cluster of the Big Apple at the conclusion of their business day, and were willing to brave the two hour commute to do it. In return, they could take their R&R where the landscape was described by rivers, grassy marsh, and deciduous trees rather than concrete, skyscrapers, and yellow cabs.

  Here the air smelled of sweet grass, not diesel fumes. A more welcoming perfume than that found in the New York groove, despite those who swear that the bouquet from the hundreds of restaurants and coffee spots in operation at three a.m. is sweet enough to entice a visitor to stay city-bound for a lifetime.

  Of equal importance to many, in Upper Makefield the lap of luxury swelled to encompass those who could manage only minimal comfort in New York, whose real estate values soared above the sky-high reaches of its famed city scape. Here, life could be made as simple—or as complicated—as one chose to make it.

  Pulling off a two-lane thoroughfare onto Lake Sashimee Falls Drive—the “lake” no more than a errant finger of the Delaware stroking the backs of homeowner land over a quarter mile stretch—Ridelle passed the circular cobblestone drive at number fifteen and turned into a double wide concrete path skirting the far side of Bruce and Fran’s monstrous white colonial. This drive path segregated deliveries from visitors, and led to the servant’s entrance. She and Twyla, having been demoted along with Fran, had been told to use this side as a sort of service entrance, which led straight into the showroom Fran called a kitchen.

  Twyla’s SUV was absent as Ridelle eased the red Pathfinder to a stop some feet away from the door. Good. She’d have time alone with Fran to explain why she wasn’t such a do-anything-for-you friend after all. She owed her the truth. Well, perhaps not all of the truth. She still had a few secrets tucked in her bosom.

  Still, once she was parked, she found herself unable to open the car door for several moments. “Go on, coward,” she muttered. “Get it over with.”

  Finally stepping from the cab, a breeze lifted shimmering waves of brunette away from her face. The approaching evening was temperate and clear. Outside, at least. Through the paneled windowpane set into the side door, Ridelle could hear voices. Raised voices.

  “Just how stupid are you, Fran? I told you that the Martins are vegetarian, and George Whitlock is allergic to shellfish. Did I use too many syllables for you?”

  Ridelle crept to the door, ducking off to the side when she spotted Bruce facing the window. Fran’s back was to her.

  “You never said anything of the sort. You just dumped a bunch more people on me and locked yourself in the office.”

  “You never listen, that’s your problem. I work my ass off to provide all this while you sit around all day. Then you can’t even spare a brain cell to pay attention to something important for business?”

  “Sit around all day? How the hell do you think eighteen rooms stay clean?”

  “Clean? I’m embarrassed to have people over to see your version of clean. I figured you’d at least be able to manage what any bathrobe wearing, Oprah watching moron can handle, but turns out I was giving you too much credit. Now, do you think you can restrain yourself from murdering my best client with seafood and come up with something vegetarian before eight o’clock? Or should I call them to explain my wife is deaf by choice and suggest they swing through Mickey D’s on the way in?”

  Ridelle’s spine stiffened with each demeaning syllable. Screw it. That jack-off husband of hers needed to lick boot scum.

  Whipping herself into a whirlwind of spontaneous cheer, she made pretense at “just” having arrived at the door. Her knock was as gregarious as her smile, and Fran startled at the sound. She spun around to peer at her through the window, then pulled open the door. Ridelle’s evil twin commanded herself into the home, her voice as breathless as though she’d just jogged in from the outer drive. “Am I late?”

  Fran stared at the stranger, speechless as she watched her wriggle pointedly out of a lightweight tan Burberry coat. The movement set the soft swell of her breasts into brief but notable motion, straining for freedom against her plunging neckline.

  Bruce lit up with gracious, welcoming smile, as if the past few minutes of browbeating his wife had leapt off of some other man’s lips. “Perfect timing,” he said. “I was just telling Fran about some changes to the menu. So glad you’re here to help her get things organized.”

  Ridelle’s voice was velvety syrup as she turned to drape her coat over Fran’s arm. Turning her head away from Bruce, she batted her eyes a’la Scarlett O’Hara at her still mute friend. “Whatever I can do to help. Just lead the way.”

  He held out two well-manicured hands with squared-off nails. “Let me take that off your hands, and I’ll leave you ladies to work magic.”

  Ridelle handed over the coat with a demure smile. She noticed he wore no wedding ring, just a wide onyx and diamond band on the opposite finger. No tan lines for this bad boy’s “I’m taken” finger. Convenient.

  When he was gone, Ridelle cocked her head at Fran and waved a hand in front of her face. “Did your mouth disappear somewhere? I could swear you had a voice when I was standing outside listening to him treat you like a used dishrag.”

  Fran blinked and widened her eyes. “I just can’t believe how great you look. You don’t even look like you!”

  “So if I look great, I don’t look like me? Not quite sure how to take that. I think it was a compliment.”

  Fran managed a guilty smile. “You know what I mean. It’s just that you don’t usually wear dresses. Especially knockouts like this one. I mean, wow!”

  “Yeah, I’m flippin’ amazing.” Her voice turned pleading. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

  “I think it’s too much—and perfect. His eyes nearly jumped out of his head when you slung off your coat.”

  “The jiggle wasn’t too obvious? I’m not what one might call savvy at this flirting stuff.”

  Fran’s laugh bounced back and forth across the room. “Honey, you’re a flirting black belt. When this is all over I may want lessons from you.”

  She looked down at her own attire—a smudged apron covered a sleeveless cocktail dress with a high turquoise neck in dotted Swiss, and a white above-the-knee skirt. Her hair, rusty in the overhead lighting, fell in similar waves to Ridelle’s own, but was caught back by a pair of sterling silver hair combs. “In fact, compared to me you’ll be quite a step up for him.”

  Ridelle frowned and took Fran by slender wrists. “Completely untrue. No more of that kind of bull talk, okay? You’re a vision, even in an apron. Glamorous and more sophisticated than I’ll ever look on my best day.”

  Fran looked out from under thick lashes, her expression dark and unreadable. “It’s just kind of weird, knowing what might happen here. You know?”

  Ridelle gripped the woman’s wrists tighter. “Hey, if you don’t want me to do this, just say the word. You mean a lot to me. Hell, I wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

  “No! No.” Fran stepped back. “I’m grateful to have a friend willing to take this on. Please don’t think otherwise.” />
  Her eyes glittered just as dampness pricked at Ridelle’s. The latter grabbed her in a sudden and furious hug, whispering into her ear. “We’re going to get through this, and life’s going to be so much better when we do. Okay?”

  The redhead nodded, and the girls pulled apart. “Now, when’s Twyla getting here? She’s not planning to wait until we do all the hard stuff, is she?”

  As if hearing Ridelle’s thoughts, the squeak of anti-lock brakes sounded just outside the door. Fran’s pointy white pumps clicked a rapid Morse code over to the door, while Ridelle clicked at a slower pace just behind.

  Twyla was unloading the back of the Cherokee. “Sorry. The sitter was late and I had to run out to LA Maison for some Brie and Swiss.”

  “Looks like you bought out the place. Need help?” Ridelle didn’t await an answer before reaching in to lend a hand at wrangling a truckload of foodstuffs.

  Twyla turned to respond and gasped, barely holding onto a paper grocery sack. “In that dress? I think not. Oh my God, Ridelle, you’re gorgeous!”

  The girl flushed as another swirl of breeze rustled the lower edge of her skirt. “What, this old thing I swore would never escape the closet again?”

  Twyla’s eyes ran up in down in a wild maneuver. “Cassini?”

  “Dina Bartel.”

  “Nice.”

  The three grabbed a handful and hauled the goods inside. Fran hefted a sack onto the counter. “Careful, the eggs are in there,” Twyla said.

  Fran nodded. “Andy’s working? I thought he’s off on holidays now?”

  “He was, but this is some new torture they’re trying out at the hospital. Instead of getting the day off like the docs, the physician assistants get to work holidays in rotation.”