The Duchess Diaries. Merline Lovelace

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       Six

      Gina was having the best dream. She was cradled in strong arms, held against a warm, hard chest. She felt so safe, so secure. So treasured. Like something precious and fragile, which even in her dream she knew she wasn’t. Savoring the sensation of being sheltered and protected, she ignored a pesky pressure low in her belly and nuzzled her nose into something soft and squeezy.

      The soft and squeezy, her hazy mind determined a moment later, was her pillow. And that irritating pressure was her bladder demanding relief. She pried up an eyelid and made out the dim outlines of her bedroom. The faint glow of the night-light always left on showed she was tucked under the satin throw she normally kept folded at the foot of the bed. She was also fully dressed.

      Grunting, she got an elbow under her and sat up. Her slept-in clothes felt scratchy and twisted and tight. Long strands of purple hair fell across her eyes. She brushed them back and tossed aside the throw. Still groggy, she made her way to the bathroom. Once back in the bedroom she shed her clothes and slid into bed, between the sheets this time.

      Sleep tugged at her. She drifted toward it on the vague remnants of her dream. Those strong arms... That steady pulse of a heartbeat under her cheek...

      “Jack?”

      She sat up again, suddenly and fully awake, and flipped onto her other hip. The covers on the other side of the bed lay smooth and flat. Intense and totally absurd disappointment made her scrunch her face in disgust.

      “Idiot! Like the man’s going to crawl into bed with you? Right here, in the apartment? And Grandmama only a snore away?”

      She flopped back down and yanked the sheet up to her chin. In almost the next breath, her disappointment took a sharp right turn into thigh-clenching need. The hunger shot straight from her breasts to her belly. From there it surged to every extremity, until even her fingernails itched with it.

      She stared at the ceiling, her breath coming hot and fast. Images fast-forwarded in her mind. Jack leaning over her, his muscles slick and taunt. Jack laughing as she rolled him onto his back and straddled him. Jack’s hands splayed on her naked hips and his jaw tight while he rose up to meet her downward thrust.

      Oh, man! She should have expected this. One of the pamphlets Dr. Martinson had provided specifically addressed the issue of heightened sex drive during pregnancy. The rampaging hormones, the supersensitive breasts, the increased blood supply to the vulva— Taken together they could brew up a perfect storm of insatiable physical hunger.

      Gina was there. Smack in the eye of the storm. She ached for Jack. She wanted him on her and in her and...

      “Oh, for Pete’s sake!”

      Throwing off the sheet, she stalked to the antique dressing table with its tri-fold mirror, marble top and dozens of tiny drawers. She couldn’t begin to count the number of hours she’d spent at this table. First as a youngster playing dress-up in Grandmama’s pearls and Sarah’s lacy peignoir. Then as a preteen, giggling with her girlfriends while they pirouetted in panties and training bras to show off their budding figures. After that came the high school years of mascara and eye shadow and love notes and trinkets from a steady stream of boys drooling over her nicely filled-out curves.

      The notes and trinkets were long gone but her trusty vibrator was tucked in its usual drawer. She didn’t have to resort to it often, but this...this gnawing hunger constituted a medical emergency.

      So much of an emergency that the relief was almost instantaneous. And too damned short-lived! Gina tried to go from limp and languid into sleep. Jack kept getting in the way. Had he been bummed about dinner? Did he and Grandmama go without her? Would he try to see her again before he flew back to Washington?

      * * *

      She was forced to wait for the answers to those questions. With the manga birthday party set to kick off at 11:00 a.m., she had to leave for work before the duchess emerged from her bedroom. Maria came in at midmorning on Saturdays so Gina got no help from that quarter, either.

      She toyed with the idea of calling Jack during the short subway ride to midtown, but all-too-vivid memories of last night’s searing hunger kept her cell phone in her purse. The memories raised heat in her cheeks. She suspected that hearing his voice, all deep and rich, would produce even more graphic effects. She wasn’t showing up for work with her nipples threatening to poke through bra and blouse.

      That didn’t stop said nipples from sitting up and taking notice, however, when Jack contacted her just after nine-thirty.

      “How are you doing, sleepyhead?”

      “Better this morning than last night.” Jamming the phone between her chin and shoulder, she initialed the final seating plan and handed it to Kallie to add table numbers to name tags. “Sorry I zonked out on you.”

      “No problem. The duchess didn’t want to leave you, so we ordered in.”

      “Corned beef on rye from Osterman’s, right?”

      “How did you know?”

      “That’s what we usually order in.”

      “We had a nice, long talk while we ate, by the way.”

      “Uh-oh! Did she leave any stones from my misspent youth unturned?”

      “One or two. She said you’ll have to turn over the rest yourself. She also said she was meeting with her opera club this evening. So that leaves just us. We can do a make-up dinner. Unless you have to work...”

      He’d left her an easy out. It said much for Gina’s state of mind that she didn’t even consider taking it.

      “I’m doing the party kickoff but Samuel’s taking cleanup. I should be done here by three.”

      “I’ll pick you up then.”

      “Kind of early for dinner,” she commented.

      “We’ll find something to do.”

      * * *

      His breezy confidence took a hit when she slid into the cab he drove up in. Groaning, she let her purpled head drop onto the seat back.

      “Next time I tell you I’m helping with a birthday party for a slew of eight-and nine-year-olds, be kind. Just shoot me right between the eyes.”

      “That bad, huh?”

      “Worse.”