Part 22 (2/2)

My heartbeat kicks up a notch. I can't imagine it.

Olivia West-thirty-three years old, the mother of a toddler, a respectable businesswoman and owner of a birthday party cafe, planner of the Mirror Lake Bicentennial Festival-getting kinky with her husband.

On the other hand... Why not?

Adventure awaits, right? This is certainly an adventure.

I grab the bag and hurry up to the bedroom. I take a quick shower and rub lotion all over my body before slithering into the skimpy panties, black stockings, and baby doll, which pushes my b.r.e.a.s.t.s together into a plump, deep cleavage before draping over my hips to the tops of my thighs.

Nice.

I brush my hair until it s.h.i.+nes, leaving it loose around my shoulders because that's the way Dean likes it. I apply more dramatic makeup than usual-smoky eyeshadow, red lipstick, black mascara-and slip into the black heels.

I go back downstairs to put on the raincoat. As I belt it around my waist, a wave of anxiety crashes over me.

No way. I can't do this. What if I get a flat tire or a speeding ticket and have to deal with a police officer? Even if I do make it to the bar safely, I can't sit there in a raincoat, knowing I'm half-naked underneath.

Or can I?

I take a deep breath and check my phone. No message from Dean, but a text from Kelsey appears. N's playing drums w/Archer. Movie later. He's having a ball. Enjoy your night w/o worry.

I send her a quick thanks and tuck the phone into my purse. I give myself a firm nod in the mirror. Sure, I'm a mother, a businesswoman, festival coordinator, member of a mom's group, et cetera... but I'm also a wife.

More specifically, Dean West's wife.

As I drive downtown to the Wildwood Inn, I remember the storm of emotions rolling through me when Dean and I got married. Excitement, overwhelming love, joy, pride, astonishment-and a deep, abiding certainty that every part of my life had been leading me right to the moment when Dean closed his hand around mine and told me he would never let go.

But I'd already known that. I'd known since the instant his fingers brushed the sleeve of my ratty gray sweats.h.i.+rt the day we met. Once Professor Dean West takes hold of you, he doesn't let go.

I pull into the hotel parking lot and spend about five minutes gathering my courage before I get out of the car. It's a little chilly out, so at least the coat isn't completely out of place.

I walk to the hotel entrance, making sure my belt is double-knotted and the coat is b.u.t.toned up to my neck. The doorman smiles at me and opens the door.

My stomach tightens with nerves. The lobby is hushed and quiet, a few guests sitting in the carpeted area near the oak staircase. Across from the reception desk, voices rise from the bar-an elegant, Old World-style room with stained-gla.s.s windows, plush chairs and couches, and glittering lamps.

I am not accustomed to frequenting such stylish places alone-much less wearing nothing but s.e.xy lingerie under my coat-but I straighten my shoulders and enter the bar like I know exactly what I'm doing.

I look around quickly, hoping to spot Dean seated in one of the intimate, shadowed booths or at least waiting for me at the bar. He's nowhere to be seen.

I glance at my watch. It's nine-fifteen. Dean didn't give me a specific time to be here, though I can't imagine he'd expect it to be much later than this. In our normal routine, we do tend to be in bed by ten... sleeping.

But this is hardly our normal routine.

I walk to the bar, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Well-dressed patrons sit at the tables, sipping fancy c.o.c.ktails, their conversations punctuated by low laughter. I maneuver onto a barstool as the surfer-boy handsome, blond bartender glides over to place a napkin in front of me. He smiles, his teeth as white as peppermints.

”Good evening, miss,” he remarks. ”You can leave your coat at the front rack, if you'd like.”

A blush scorches my face.

”That's okay.” I give him a bright smile. ”I'm a bit chilly.”

”A drink to warm you up, then?” he asks, letting his gaze slip over me.

I figure I'd better limit my alcohol intake. Even though I'm not sure what Dean has planned, I do know I want to be entirely lucid for it.

”Club soda with lime,” I say. ”Or can you make me something without too much alcohol?”

”I can make you anything you want,” the bartender replies with a wink.

I wonder if he's flirting with me. Wouldn't that be something?

”Should I surprise you?” he asks.

”Okay. Just not too much alcohol.”

”Are you under twenty-one?”

I laugh. ”You're closer to twenty-one than I am.”

”I don't know about that.” He leans his elbows on the counter. ”I'm going to have to see your ID.”

I shake my head in amus.e.m.e.nt, thinking he's joking, but he doesn't move, his gaze holding mine. With a shrug, I dig into my purse for my wallet and show him my driver's license.

”Olivia,” he says, studying my license. ”Pretty name.”

”And plenty old,” I add.

”Not so much.” He hands my license back. ”You're five years older than me. That doesn't make you a cougar.”

A bubble of laughter rises into my throat.

”My drink?” I ask.

”Yeah, sorry.” He pushes away from the counter. ”One low-alcohol surprise c.o.c.ktail coming up.”

Still smiling, I turn to scan the bar again. The clientele is mostly men, though several women in s.h.i.+ny, sheath dresses and elegant gold jewelry sip martinis and cosmopolitans.

No sign of Dean yet. An older gentleman at a corner table catches my eye and raises his gla.s.s.

It takes me a second to realize that-aside from being conspicuous as the only woman in the bar wearing a raincoat-the coat has parted at the fold, exposing a significant length of my stocking-clad leg.

The man's attention makes me wonder what would have happened if Dean and I had met like this-in a hotel bar with me showing off my a.s.sets, rather than outside a university registrar's office with me picking myself up off the sidewalk.

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