by Ludi and angyxoxo
I’m actually quaking in my Jimmy
Choo boots by the time I arrive in the conference room.
I’d spent fifteen minutes in my cube
trying to psyche myself up – or, in other words, to work out some amazing bluff
that’d get me out of yet another sticky situation. It was no good. I could
think of nothing. Rogue never runs, so
best thing to do was lie low and hope everyone would forget about me.
However, being late didn’t help at
all. As soon as I walked in I ended up
interrupting someone’s speech and earning myself some nettled looks. So, mumbling apologies, I slid into my seat
and tried to make myself look as inconspicuous as possible. Unfortunately, today was the day I’d decided
to wear a low-cut V-neck (what on earth possessed me to do that??), so I ended
up feeling more self-conscious than usual.
Especially with the way that perv Remy LeBeau was always eyeing me up
like I was a piece of meat on a market slab.
Ororo Munroe was sitting at the head
of the table along with Mr. God’s-Gift-to-Women. The two of them already seemed quite cozy together. Why did that not surprise me?
“Did Ah miss anythin’?” I whisper to
Peter Rasputin, who I happen to be sitting next to.
“Not if you take interest in
anything boring old Robert Kelly has to say,” he whispers back. “I’m sure that
for him talking is some sort of intellectual jerking off.”
We share a private giggle between
the two of us, straightening our faces before anyone looks our way.
The new perfume was called Lavande. A quick look in my handy pocket dictionary had told me this meant
lavender. Duh. Even a five year-old could’ve worked that
one out. At least that gave me something
to work on. I spent most of the meeting
trying to think of a way to wheedle myself out of this mess. There seemed to be some debate about the
color purple going on in the background.
Ororo Munroe, that gorgeous goddess whose butt everyone was licking, was
looking about as bored as I was. She
flatly refused to wear purple (I wondered whether that had anything to do with
the fact that purple had always been Betsy’s trademark color?), and she didn’t
even have a clue what the name of the perfume meant. At least she had something to occupy herself with in the
meantime, namely her and Remy flirting like there’s no tomorrow.
At last the conference looks like
it’s about to be over and I think I’ve managed to escape – this time. But then I see Remy’s giving me a look and
says: “I don’t s’ppose you have anyt’ing to add to dis meetin’, Ms. Raven? You have quite a collection of papers
there…”
I stare down at the briefing sheets,
which I’ve happened to scribble all over.
Uh oh. No way of getting out of
this one, gal. You’re in deep shit
now. How’re you supposed to get away
with only a couple of flowery doodles you drew in ballpoint just half an hour
ago…?
Waitaminnit… flowery doodles…
Without another thought I get to my
feet and brandish my five-year-old scribbles in the air.
“This, ladies and gents,” I launch
into my speech headfirst, “is mah proposal for our new line of perfume.” I look
at the drawings, trying to make out what they could possibly signify, and
continue: “This is… a waterfall… of flowers… of lavenders, of course… cascading over…uh, our model, Ms. Munroe!” I
pause. Everyone looks at me
blankly. I clear my throat. “Ah know
what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’
this drawin’ does not look like
lavenders. And there is a good reason
for that. Ah…uh… Ah can’t draw.” People
are looking confused now. Shit! Pick your ass up off the floor now gal! “But!” I interject rapidly,
“there is someone in this room who can!
Ah introduce to you – Mr. Peter Rasputin!”
Peter looks about in astonishment and
I hiss at him to stand up beside me. He
gets to his feet, whispers in my ear: “What
are you doing?”
“Play
along,” I hiss back through a fake smile. “Now, ladies and gents,” I begin
again, “this man is a very fine
artist, and Ah have envisioned him as the tour-de-force of this new
project. We are going to make use of
this man’s rare talents, and do something no
one in the perfume industry has ever done before! We are going to use real, breathing art to promote our new product.
Colorful, elegant, beautiful paintings of…uh, flowers, that hark back to
the works of, uh…”
“Fantin-Latour,”
Peter whispers in my ear. Who the hell is he???
“Fantin-Latour,” I repeat quickly. I
lift my pathetic picture again, hoping I’m not making an utter cretin of
myself. “This, people, is my vision. It
is…simple. And it doesn’t look much on
the outside. But,” I add, warming to
the subject, “it is effective. And it
is… natural. Women today don’t want
synthetic, overpowering perfumes that old grannies wear. We want fresh, natural, organic fragrances that make us…” Quick, think of something! “…make
us feel one with nature!” God, please let them buy this crap! “And so,
Ah propose the simple flower… in all its beauty, in all its glory…raining down
upon a beautiful, natural, down-to-earth
woman – the face of L&L, Ms. Ororo Munroe.” I end up bestowing the stuck-up
model with a sickly smile, then promptly fall back into my seat, cheeks
blazing.
Please
don’t let them laugh at me!
There’s a short silence. Then some hmm-ing and hah-ing and doubtful
looks cast across the table. I knew it
– they think I’m nuts! But at least I
bluffed my way through and provided some sort of opinion, hare-brained as it
was. Right?
“Ms. Raven,” that old fart Robert
Kelly says, “I really don’t think that this is…”
Luckily, before he can launch into
one of rants about how things used to be done in the old days, Ororo speaks up
and over his whiny voice. “Ms… sorry, I’ve forgotten what your name is… I
actually think this is a good idea.” I sit up.
She does? Like I could care
less… but Ororo Munroe actually thinks my
half-baked scheme is good? “Granted, it needs some fleshing out, but it has
some promise.”
“But -” Robert begins in
consternation.
“Mr. Kelly, I absolutely refuse to wade through pools of gold or
involve myself in death-defying stunts on top of the Eiffel Tower,” the model
insists flatly. “I know you have as big a budget as Calvin Klein or Elizabeth
Arden, but I was born and bred an African, and we highly cherish the power of
Nature. Why not go back to basics
instead of throwing money round? What
do we associate perfume with?
Flowers. Flowers are Nature’s
fragrance and I think L&L should reflect that.”
“My point exactly,” I throw in,
giving Robert a self-righteous glare.
Ororo Munroe may be stuck up, but her supermodel pretensions about being
‘one with the earth’ have their useful side.
“And I happen to think the idea of
showing this graphically – through Mr. Rasputin’s art – would give the campaign
the organic feel we’re looking for.” She turns to Peter. “Perhaps I could see
your portfolio, Mr. Rasputin…?”
Peter’s as stunned as I am about all
this, but he catches on pretty quickly, bless him.
“Of course,” he smiles.
“Well, I do believe we’ve settled on
an idea,” Ororo says, speaking for everyone else, who, so far, have looked
nothing if not slightly bewildered.
Remy slouches back in his chair,
steeples his fingers. “You sure ‘bout dis, Ms. Munroe?” he asks. “Don’t you
want somet’ing more…sophisticated?”
“Mr. LeBeau I was brought up with
people who have simple tastes.” She smiles prettily, adds; “We don’t have much
of a problem with nudity either.
There’s something to be said for the unrefined, you know.”
“I’m a great fan of all t’ings
unrefined, chere,” Remy grins, winking.
She bats her eyelids back. I
scowl in my seat. All this schmaltz is
just about more than I can take.
The meeting breaks up, and I scurry
out thankfully, grabbing my papers before anyone can actually see how pathetic
they really were. So I got away with
one of the biggest bluffs of the 21st century. Now what?
I have no idea of what I’m supposed to do to get this stupid project
underway. I hurry back to my cube and
brood. I haven’t the faintest idea what
exactly my vision was supposed to be,
let alone what anyone else thinks it is.
“Mind if I join you?” a voice calls
from behind me. I swivel round to see
Peter.
“Sure,” I sigh. “Please do.”
He walks up, seats himself on the
edge of my desk.
“That was a pretty impressive speech
you made back there,” he says.
“Yeah, Ah think a big wooden nose
spoutin’ outta mah face wouldn’t be unjustified right now,” I grumble.
“Hey, you sold it,” he smiles. “Must
mean you’re good at something.”
“ ‘Distinction in lying’ does not
look good on a resume, Petey.” I groan and bury my head in my hands. “What am
Ah gonna do now?!”
“Well, as far as I know, I seem to
have been drafted into your crazy scheme without my knowing it. So I guess I’m on board from here on
in. Maybe we could work on this together?”
I peer up at him through my fingers.
“Really?” I sniff.
“Really.” He smiles.
I drop my hands.
“Ah really, really owe you one,” I tell him.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He
produces a small sketchpad, adds: “By the way – one question. How did you know I could paint?”
“Ah guess word gets round.”
“What? Like you and Mr. LeBeau?”
I stare at him. “What?”
“You mean… nothing’s going on
between you two?” He looks surprised.
“Yah really think Ah’m gonna hook up
with a …a man-whore like that?” I voice, outraged. “What even made you think that?”
He shrugs, looking sheepish.
“Rumors, I guess. Some of the folks
round here…well, let’s just say they think you got your position here because
of a certain type of talent that doesn’t
involve the use of brainpower.”
Oh, so is that what some people think about me? I should’ve known…
“Ah’ll have you know Ah got this job
due to mah excellent resume and references,” I huff, adding an extra inch to my
wooden nose in the process. “And as for Remy LeBeau…well, Ah wouldn’t ever be
seen dead with a moron like that, not
in a million years!”
-oOo-
It was Friday evening, and Emma
Frost had an important date to keep. It
almost pained her that the only man she seemed to be seeing regularly these
days was a cantankerous millionaire with a stick up his ass.
“I have a date with Mr. Warren
Worthington tonight,” she told Bobby before leaving. “Lock up after you’ve
cleaned the pond, will you?”
Bobby was laboring over his task
catching dead leaves in a net, dressed in his usual Hawaiian shirt and shorts.
“Warren Worthington as in the Warren Worthington?” he echoed, his
breath catching as clouds on the air.
There was an element of disappointment to his face. “You’re going out
with him?”
“Going out?” Emma looked mildly
surprised. “Whatever makes you think I’d chose
to associate with Warren Worthington III of my own volition, Bobby? Frankly, I’d rather spend time with a
low-paid cashier from the local Super-Low-Val-U Mart than such a frightful
excuse for a snotty public schoolboy.” She paused, musing to herself. “I’m sure
they wear diapers well into their formative years. It lends to them certain inadequacies they can’t quite overcome
in adulthood.” She stopped when she saw Bobby’s confused expression. “Rich men,
I mean,” she hastened to add.
“Er…okay,” Bobby replied, not quite
knowing what to make of this outburst.
“Anyway,” Emma continued, walking
towards her car. “Make sure you lock the shed securely before you leave. I simply can’t have anyone stealing my Dyson
Turbo 4000 Deluxe lawnmower again.”
Bobby watched as Emma slid into her
red Porsche and speeded off, getting the distinct feeling that he was falling
for one of the scariest women he’d ever met.
“Wonder if she’d spend time with an
ex-Burger King employee,” he muttered to himself. “We do earn 5 cents more than
Super-Low-Val-U Mart cashiers after all.”
-xXx-
Jean was practically sitting in a
mountain of material, rag-ends, and bits of cloth. That very afternoon Scott had left for California and she’d been
determined to carry on with wedding preparations without him. It really was amazing how difficult it was
to sort out tablecloths and dinnerware accessories for the reception. She’d meant to sort it out two weeks ago,
but hadn’t gotten round to it. Now,
faced with the gargantuan task, she’d felt somehow helpless and alone. Here she was, planning for her wedding, and
her husband-to-be wasn’t even near.
This was supposed to be fun, exciting – so why was she feeling so
depressed?
Jean poured herself a glass of
whiskey. She hated the stuff – she kept
it for Scott when he came round – but she felt like something hard to take the
edge off her misery. After a few
mouthfuls she was well on her way to getting drunk. She’d never held her drink well, but tonight she didn’t
particularly care.
“Damn you, Scott,” she mumbled to
her glass. “So Mr. Charles Xavier is more important to you than your
wife-to-be? Should’ve listened to mom
and never gotten involved with someone who’s married to his job.”
Nope, she really refused to be
beaten by this. The last thing she
wanted was to be sad and miserable and crying over a glass of alcohol. She refused to suffer alone. So Scott was in California. She didn’t need him around to have some
fun! She wasn’t going to sit at home
and brood! She was going to go out on
the town and pretend she was single all over again! She wasn’t married yet. She was free to do whatever she chose!
A couple of whiskeys later, Jean
pulled on her coat, grabbed her purse and keys and called for a taxi. She hadn’t a clue where she was going,
except it was definitely going to involve bright lights and the city. She got off on a side road where a large
group of people had gathered outside what seemed to be a thriving club. From inside the building, she could hear a
cacophony of music and laughter.
Paying the cab driver, she wove her
way through the crowd of people and up to the entrance. People were walking in freely.
“Free drinks between 9 and 10 p.m.!”
the bouncer was calling. “Come and get ‘em people! It’s Logan’s birthday and the Hideaway’s having an hour of drinks
on the house in honor of everyone’s
favorite guy! Free drinks b’tween 9 and
10 p.m. guys, you can’t miss it!”
Jean hovered outside the entrance a
moment. Clubbing wasn’t usually her
scene… at least, it hadn’t been since she’d met Scott. He preferred classical music to dance or
techno or even disco. Jean herself
wasn’t big on nightclubs, but this place seemed friendly… almost inviting, in a
way. Welcoming. And more importantly, anything free couldn’t
be bad.
Making up her mind, Jean strode
inside without looking back.
-oOo-
Emma made her way to the hotel lobby
where she’d planned to meet Warren. She
hadn’t been relishing the prospect of seeing that pompous schmuck again, but
seeing the disappointment on Bobby’s face when she’d mentioned the date had
been enough to put her into a good mood again.
Emma had an unfortunate and innate sadistic streak, and enjoyed making
men suffer. She’d sniggered a little at
the fact that the poor boy actually had a crush on her – there was nothing she
loved more than having her ego massaged, be it by New York’s richest bachelor
or it’s lowliest college student.
Nevertheless, she just couldn’t help thinking that Bobby Drake was
rather cute… and his obvious adoration of her definitely made him much more
appealing.
Emma strode into the lobby feeling
ready to take on anything Warren Worthington had to throw at her. So she was very much surprised – and
disappointed – to find that he was nowhere in sight.
“That cretinous fool must be late,”
she growled between her teeth, tapping her feet and staring down at her
expensive Rolex watch. “I’ll teach him
to mess with my time!”
She was just about to consider
leaving herself when she felt someone tap her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me – Ms. Emma Frost?”
Emma swung round in surprise to see
a dark-haired woman standing behind her – every inch as busty and precocious as
Emma herself.
“And who might you be?” she asked, looking down her nose at the woman in disgust –
which was pretty hard considering the fact that she was already a couple of
inches taller than Emma.
“Jennifer Walters,” the woman
introduced herself, holding out her hand.
The two shared a withering handshake, looking at each other with mutual
dislike. Jennifer Walters. Emma had heard of her – she was one of New
York’s most successful and ruthless lawyers, with the added bonus of having a
body every man in the city slavered after.
“It’s a pleasure to finally make
your acquaintance,” Jennifer said, as if the exact opposite were true.
“Likewise,” Emma practically
sneered. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Actually, I’ve come here to discuss
some business with you,” Jennifer replied airily. Emma glared at her with suspicion.
“With me? I’m sure there’s nothing we have to say to one another, Ms.
Walters.”
“On the contrary,” the other woman
smiled coldly, “I’ve come here on behalf of my client, Mr. Warren
Worthington. He had, ah, more important
things than seeing you on his priority list, I’m afraid, and is currently out
of the country.” Seeing the shock on Emma’s face, her smile grew even wider.
“Shall we sit?” she asked, gesturing to a nearby table.
Despite herself, Emma felt her
cheeks reddening. She sat down slowly,
schemes of revenge already forming rabidly in her brain.
Warren Worthington had humiliated
her for the last time!
-xXx-
I can’t believe it. This has to be the first day I’ve ever
worked overtime; and even more amazing, I’ve actually enjoyed it.
As I walk down the corridor to Mr.
LeBeau’s office, I proudly leaf through the photocopies of my proposal for the
new ad campaign. It gives me a weird
kind of satisfaction to know that at least somebody
appreciates and admires something I’ve done.
Even Peter Rasputin seems excited about the new project. Now there’s one sweet little Siberian
plough-boy. It would figure that as soon as I meet a decent guy it turns out
someone else has claimed him. I
could’ve ignored that. But my sense of
honor prevails. I even did every good
gal’s duty and introduced him to Kitty.
Momma did instill some down-home values into this rogue after all.
I walk up to Mr. LeBeau’s office to
find the door slightly ajar. I’m just
about to knock respectfully when I catch a glimpse of Remy and his ‘guest’
inside the room. It’s Ororo
Munroe. Hmm. I should’ve known.
Commonsense is telling me to keep a
distance, but instead I hover just outside the room and peer at them through
the crack in the door. What I can
say? I’ve never particularly been known
for my commonsense anyway.
They’re standing by the desk,
talking. As usual, that slippery
sleazebag is working his mojo for all he’s worth. And from the way Ororo’s smiling and giggling, it’s working! Unbelievable!
“I’m so sorry about my French,
Remy,” the beautiful model apologizes. “I feel so embarrassed, not even knowing
what the name of the new perfume meant!
I should’ve asked you sooner.”
“Oh, don’t worry your beautiful self
about it, Ms. Munroe,” he replies in that low, soft voice of his. “Truth is,
most of de time we just call our perfumes by French names b’cause it sounds
good.”
“Please, call me Ororo,” she insists
coyly, touching his hand lightly with her own.
Hmph! Doesn’t take long for that
stuck-up little tramp to cave in now, does it!
“Ororo,” he corrects himself with a
charming smile. They laugh. Ugh!
“You know,” Ororo begins, after a
moment, “since I’m now the face of a French company, maybe I should start
learning a little of the language…” She pauses, and I’m certain she’s batting
her eyelids at him. “Maybe you could be the one to teach me, Remy.”
No
no no NO!
“C’est une excellent idea,” he
agrees seductively, inching closer to her. “Maybe I could teach you some French
right now, bien? You just watch my
lips.”
I lean in closer to watch her reaction,
only to find she’s falling for the bait.
The next moment he’s using those oh-so-skilful lips of his on hers! I hold back an enraged gasp. Oh please! I could see that one coming a mile
away! Not to mention, I’m the one who needs help with my French,
not her!
Right, this is it! I’ve had just about enough of Mr. LeBeau’s
gratuitous little show! Clearing my
throat very loudly, I stalk into the
room without even attempting to knock.
The two spring apart like lightning, and it satisfies me to know that
they’ve been caught red-handed by none other than yours truly. Ororo doesn’t know where to put her face,
but Remy, on the other hand, looks like he’s just dropped a nickel and found a
dime. What does it take to wipe the
smile off that infuriating man’s face?!
“Mr. LeBeau,” I state coldly, “I’ve
finished that proposal for you. Perhaps
you’d like to see it?” I hold up my precious project, showing proof that I
wasn’t just outside to casually spy on his little tryst. Hah!
Let him worm his way out of this one!
“Ah – Anna,” he greets me with
characteristic ease, while Ororo busily occupies herself with gathering up her
belongings into her purse. “Of course.” He turns to his latest conquest, smiles
his winning smile and says: “Ororo, do you mind…?”
“Not at all,” she replies quickly,
cheeks flushed and a simpering smile locked onto her cherry-red lips. “You’re
obviously busy. I won’t get in the
way.”
“Ma chere, you’re never in the way,”
he assures her suavely, “But perhaps you could call me…?” He hands her his
card. Oh God, someone pass me the barf
bucket, please!
“Of course,” she beams at him. Geez, what an idiot! Every gal knows that if it’s not the guy
who’s calling you, he ain’t really interested.
She leaves quickly, passing me a first-prize scowl before banging the
door shut behind her. Hah! Betsy would be highly amused to know I’ve
now made an enemy out of a world-famous supermodel.
“Well,” I state icily, once we’re
alone, “looks like you’ve scored, Mr. LeBeau.”
“Looks like you have too,” he
remarks, still smiling smugly as he goes to pour himself a drink.
“Congratulations on your first big assignment bein’ approved, chere.”
I glower at him, march up to the
desk and slap my files down for him to look at.
“Ah s’ppose you’re feelin’ very pleased
with yourself, knowin’ that hirin’ me into your creative team has paid off,” I
comment acidly. “Although maybe not in the way you thought it would.”
He appraises me, those dark eyes of
his sparkling with amusement.
“On the contrary, ma chere, you’ve
exceeded my expectations in almost every possible way. And I have a feelin’ you’re goin’ t’ carry
on doin’ so.” He pauses to let the sentence sink in. So he’s still expecting me to give into his charms, is he? I’ve gotta give it to him – the jerk’s stubborn
as a mule.
I make no reply, so he walks up to
stand beside me as he rifles through my presentation folder. He could’ve done it over the desk, but I
suspect he likes intimidating me by standing close by. I don’t make a move. The more someone pushes me, the less I
yield. He wants to play his stupid
games, fine, let him!
When he’s finished, he closes the
folder, looks at me, and smiles.
“I guess I was right when I detected
dat creative streak in you, Anna. Dis
is good stuff. Really good stuff. I’m
impressed.”
“Thank you,” I mutter. I hate having to be polite to him.
“Heh. No need t’ thank me. Dis
Cajun appreciates it when his gamble wit’ an employee pays off.” He grins. “You
got some impressive assets, p’tit. You
shouldn’t be afraid to use ‘em.”
“And exactly what assets would you
be referring to, Mr. LeBeau?” I shoot at him caustically. He chuckles softly.
“Dat’s what I like about you,
Anna. Half de innuendoes we make come
outta your own mouth.” He puts his drink down and turns to me, those soft eyes
of his suddenly intense. “How long we gonna keep dis up, chere? Only I’m kinda intrigued t’ know just how
much of a ‘rogue’ you really are.”
There’s no way I’m going to turn and
fall for those big, pretty eyes of his.
So I look away, my mouth set into a hard line.
“Ah can show you exactly how much of a rogue Ah am,
sugah,” I inform him coldly. “But probably in ways y’ ain’t gonna like at all.”
“Oh?” His voice is a low purr. “Is
dat a promise?”
He reaches out a hand and touches my
hip, his fingers caressing downward over the curve of my butt. I freeze, a breath catching in my
throat. I’ve been groped by guys before
in nightclubs – I’ve never understood why men can’t get how disgustingly unsexy
it is to be manhandled from out of nowhere.
But this is different. His touch
is so soft, so subtle, so inviting… that for one wild moment I have the urge to
accept the invitation, jump into his arms and kiss him passionately.
Over
my dead body!
Without another thought I whip round
and slap him hard in the face. He reels
back, half stunned, half awed. Oh! How satisfying is that?!
“Ah’ll thank you not t’ touch mah
butt, y’ low-life swamp rat!” I rage at him. “You want some tramp t’ touch up,
Ah’m sure that floozy supermodel of yours will be more than obligin’!”
Oops. I hadn’t quite meant for that to slip out as accusingly as it
did. He immediately catches the tone in
my voice and smiles with sudden enlightenment, his eyes sparkling.
“Anna Raven,” he begins slyly, “are
you tryin’ t’ tell me dat you like me a lot?”
I bristle at the suggestion.
“No, I’m tryin’ t’ tell you that Ah
hate you a lot, are yah deaf?!”
His grin is complacent.
“You’re jealous,” he states in that
irritatingly self-assured way of his.
The nerve! To think I’d even give two sticks whether he
has his tongue down a supermodel’s throat or not!
“Jealous?!” I explode indignantly. “Ah
shouldn’t give a damn if yah were seein’ all
the supermodels in the world – they’re all quite welcome t’ your pathetic
self! An’ if you even so much as think of layin’ another finger on meh,
you’ll sure as hell be findin’ out why mah friends call me Rogue! And let me warn yah, it ain’t gonna be a
pretty sight!”
I storm out of the room as quickly
as I entered it. The day I’m jealous of
any woman that Cajun gets his slimy paws on is the day I start spinning in my
grave!
-oOo-
Most men would’ve been deflated
after being rejected, insulted and slapped in the face by a woman – but not so
Remy LeBeau. Instead he found himself
gazing at the titillating sight of Anna Raven’s perfectly shaped ass as she
sashayed indignantly out of the room, before it was finally blocked from view
by the door slamming shut.
Forget Ororo Munroe! The only woman he wanted right now was a
certain Mississippi river rat with a bad temper and a white streak in her hair.
“Quelle femme!” he murmured under
his breath before downing the rest of his drink in one go. He rubbed his cheek, which still tingled
with the shape of her hand, then shook his head humorously. “Dat lady is
somethin’ else.”
Most women he met couldn’t resist
his charms for more than two minutes – yet here she was, he’d known her an
entire week and she was still holding
out against him. He had to admit, his
fascination with her had stemmed from the minute she’d sassed him in the
interview last week. From that moment
onward everything about her had been utterly irresistible to him. He hadn’t felt this way about a femme before
– well, not in recent years anyhow… but that was beside the point.
She was the most incredibly sexy
woman he’d ever laid eyes (or hands) on, and Remy LeBeau was now completely
determined that, before the month was out, Anna Raven was going to be his.
-xXx-
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