Brief Encounters. Suzanne Forster

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СКАЧАТЬ all you could see was a disembodied hot-pink thong bobbing around.

      Not unlike my dreams, Swan thought ironically.

      The crowd howled and flashbulbs popped as photographers jostled one another for a better angle.

      “The Romeo imprint is for the romantic at heart,” Swan said. “The man who knows how to sweet-talk and candy-walk his way right into his lover’s heart. Romeo gets his Juliet every time when he’s wearing a Brief Encounters design!”

      As Brad left the stage, the second model came forward. He wore a traditional red fireman’s helmet and had a length of fire hose draped over his bare shoulder as he strode confidently down the runway. “For the damsel in distress, for the adventuress, and for all who love a man in uniform, bring on the heroes!”

      This round of applause was even louder than the first. Swan noticed that a few of the women in the audience were actually getting to their feet to get a better look at Sam the Fireman. Sam’s formfitting briefs were fire-engine red with black suspender-like straps attached. When he got to the end of the lighted runway, he stopped and yanked the hose from his shoulder, pointing the nozzle at the audience.

      “What do you think, ladies?” Swan asked cheerfully. “Is he hot enough for you? Should we hose him down?”

      Sam dazzled them with a raffish grin before bowing his head. As he turned, the audience got their first good look at his tightly knotted buttocks, and the normally tranquil garden gave up a roar of approval.

      “Whew,” Swan said, wiping her brow in exaggerated fashion. “We better cool things off.” There were loud groans of protest and Swan laughed. “You don’t want to cool off? Not even with a swim? How about a swim with the man who’s bold enough to wear Machismo?”

      Model number three sprinted onto the runway in a black bikini swimsuit that left little to the imagination. Atop his head was a black swimming cap and goggles. Tall, tanned and sleek as a panther, he made his way down the runway.

      Swan gave her spiel on the Machismo line and allowed the raucous response to build as she waved all three models back onto center stage. “This is only the preview,” she shouted, trying to be heard over the noise. “The entire line can be seen tomorrow night at the La Bomba boutique on Melrose. Again, thank you all for coming!”

      With that, she grabbed her organizer from the podium and descended into a throng of well-wishers. Her sense of relief outweighed everything else, but the success of the event began to dawn on her as she was swept into one embrace after another. Her guests, professional and otherwise, seemed thrilled by the program—and happy for her. Maybe it was safe to say that the fashion show was a hit. She only hoped the line was, too.

      The press rushed over with questions about the show, and there was a line of people waiting to extend their congratulations. Swan held out through most of it, savoring the sweetness of Brief Encounters’s first victory, and wishing Lynne had been here to share it. She had to find Gerard to thank him, too. But finally, she had no choice. The need to excuse herself was becoming more urgent every second.

      “Brava!” someone called out as Swan hurried into the house. Some of the guests had moved inside from the garden, and she smiled, waving as she sailed by them. The closest bathroom was in the hall, under the foyer staircase. She turned the knob, grateful that she had made it. Locked! From inside someone said, “Out in a sec.”

      But Swan didn’t have much more than a second. She trotted down the hall and ducked into one of the guest rooms. The bathroom door was open and the light was off. Empty.

      In record time she had her ruffled skirt hiked up and her panties and panty hose down to her ankles. She’d worn panties because her new Tanga Totally Nude panty hose were quite risqué without them—and also because of the problem that had brought her to the bathroom. A psychologist friend had told her that her sense of urgency was nothing more than a reaction to stress. Swan didn’t disagree, but tell that to her bladder on a night such as this.

      It hit her suddenly how exhausted she was. The past few days had been a whirlwind of activity, but she had made it through, and she had made it through on her own. It had not only gone well, it had gone better than she’d dreamed it might—the perfect day, really.

      Lord, she was tired. She could go to sleep right here.

      Letting her eyes drift shut, she reached for the toilet tissue. A few seconds later she heard a creaking noise and she slowly opened her eyes again. A few seconds? Swan blinked several times. It must have been long enough for her to have fallen into a deep sleep—because she was now dreaming that there was a man in her bathroom—a very tall, angry-looking man holding a big gold badge.

      “Swan McKenna?” he said. “You’re under arrest.”

      3

      IT WAS A GOOD THING Swan had already finished her personal business. Otherwise she would have left a puddle on the bathroom floor. Under arrest? He had to be kidding. “Gerard!” she called. Her assistant must have put this guy up to it. “Get out of my bathroom,” she croaked at the intruder when there was no immediate response from Gerard. Leaning toward the partially open door, she shouted again, “Gerard! Are you out there? This isn’t funny. Get this policeman person out of my bathroom! The auditions are over!”

      “FBI, ma’am,” the intruder said. His voice was quiet and calm in the face of her distress. “And I’m not going anywhere. You are. To jail.”

      Swan couldn’t even stand to demand that he leave. She was sitting on the throne with her panties down and her skirt up. This had to be some crazy prank Gerard thought up with the help of his male model friends, although this guy didn’t seem to be one of them. He hadn’t been part of the crew. But now that she thought about it, she had seen him somewhere before.

      “If you don’t leave instantly, I’m calling the law,” she warned. She grabbed a plastic plunger from its holder on the floor, as if to swing it at him.

      “Ma’am, I am the law.” He flashed the badge again. “Rob Gaines, Special Agent, FBI. Now put that thing down and get up. Slowly.”

      Swan peered at him for so long that it suddenly hit her where she’d seen him before. “I know you,” she gasped. “You’re not FBI, you’re that telephone repairman! Did you think you could fool me by changing costumes?”

      “Trust me, Ms. McKenna, this is no costume. Now set the plunger down and put up your hands. Keep them where I can see them at all times.”

      He wasn’t the sexy-as-sin telephone repairman who’d been invading her dreams for the past two days? He was a government agent? Boy, could she pick ’em. Swan wanted desperately to think that this was a dream, too, a very bad one, but as she scrutinized his dark hair and hot blue eyes, she realized something. It was him—and he wasn’t looking at her hands.

      She followed his gaze to the length of thigh exposed by her hiked-up skirt. Apparently, FBI agents weren’t bashful about getting an eyeful. She dropped the plunger and tugged her skirt to her knees.

      “Do you mind?” she said. “I’d like to finish up without an audience.”

      “Sorry, ma’am, we can’t do that,” another voice said.

      Swan looked around Gaines and saw a second man at the bathroom door. He was as tall as Gaines but possibly twenty pounds heavier, with short-cropped, sandy-blond СКАЧАТЬ