Naughty Talk Read online

  There was a chorus of impressed “whoas” from the audience.

  Anthony groaned. “If I were you, Nikki, I wouldn’t believe everything I read.”

  “I don’t,” she replied, further disconcerting him and keeping the audience animated.

  “Flowers,” Anthony said, obviously wanting to move ahead and away from discussing himself. “Flowers must rate pretty high with women.”

  “Flowers are nice,” Nicole agreed. “But practical women of the nineties prefer something that lasts longer than a bouquet of flowers.”

  “Diamonds, right?”

  “Is that a proposal, Anthony?” she asked flirtatiously.

  “No. If I were proposing something, I’d buy you a giant bag of M&M’s.”

  That got the laugh he wanted from the audience, and even a half smile from Nicole. “Now, back to my question,” he continued. “Lets leave chocolate, flowers and other sundry romantic items by the wayside and get to men and women specifically. What would you say was the main thing women want from men and aren’t getting?”

  “Do you like rock-and-roll music, Anthony?” Her question brought a look of surprise to his face.

  “Sure, why?”

  “Then perhaps you’re a Rolling Stones fan….”

  “I like the Stones….”

  “Then maybe you can tell me the title of one of their biggest hits.”

  “They’ve had a lot of hits.”

  “This is a fairly early one.”

  “You don’t mean—?”

  “That’s right. ‘I can’t get no satisfaction,’ as Mick Jagger would say.”

  “Satisfaction, eh? And I guess sexual satisfaction is something a sex therapist like yourself would know an intimidating lot about.”

  It was clear he thought he’d turned the tables on her, but she was having none of it. “You don’t have to be a sex therapist to know men are obsessed with speed,” she said. “And not just when it comes to flashy sports cars, either.

  “It’s hardly a secret that men are too quick—too quick with the actual sex act, and too quick to turn over and fall asleep afterward.”

  The audience was so quiet you could have heard a cotton ball drop.

  Anthony cleared his throat.

  That caused a tittering to sweep the audience.

  “What … what do you suppose it is that … Ah, why do you suppose men are so quick?” Anthony finally managed to ask. “Is it because men are insensitive brutes? Is that what you’re getting at?”

  “No …”

  “No?”

  “Well, some are, of course. But I don’t think insensitivity is the main reason.”

  “Okay, we’re not insensitive brutes, guys,” Anthony said, looking to the audience to include them. “Well, if we’re not insensitive brutes—then what? Are we uneducated about women and what they desire when it comes to sex? Is that what you’re saying, Nikki?”

  He really thought he was cute, sitting there, all gorgeous-male-specimen making a pretense at being one with the men in the audience, most of whom didn’t rank within a stone’s throw of him in masculine assurance. She didn’t feel a bit guilty about her charade.

  Nicole shook her head and plunged ahead. “There has been too much media attention on the subject for that to be possible. I think most men know women want foreplay and want it to last as long as—”

  “An egg timer,” Anthony interjected with a wide, sexy grin.

  Nicole just looked at him. “No, more like a football quarter.”

  Nicole’s byplay brought the females in the audience to their feet, cheering and clapping.

  “The visiting team scores an extra point,” Anthony said wryly.

  “An extra point? I didn’t know we were keeping score,” Nicole muttered.

  “Like hell you didn’t,” Anthony whispered back as the audience settled down.

  “Okay, if I understand you correctly, Nikki, you’re saying that lack of education on the part of the male isn’t the problem. You believe men know what women want, they just aren’t delivering it—for whatever reason.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, bottom line, why aren’t men delivering what women want? What is the problem? Are men just plain selfish?”

  “Some men may be, but in my opinion the reason the majority of men omit or only give token attention to the foreplay they know women want and/or require for a fully satisfying sexual experience is that they are afraid of the consequences—or I should say the possible consequences—of not doing so.” Maybe she should be an actress, she thought. She was pretty good.

  “The consequences? I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Nikki. I don’t understand.”

  “Think about it. Wouldn’t you agree men assume that women measure their desirability to them by their erection?” She amazed herself. She hadn’t even blushed.

  Anthony nodded, his green eyes looking a little skittish. He didn’t comment, however; just waited silently for her to get to wherever she was heading in order to make her point.

  She obliged him by continuing. “And a man measures how desirable he is by his erection….”

  Anthony just kept nodding, remaining silent, but swallowing visibly.

  “So what’s the logical problem, then?” she asked, knowing full well Anthony wasn’t prepared in any way to answer the question, and loving every torturous second of his discomfort.

  “You tell me,” he choked out.

  “That’s easy. Men are afraid.”

  “Afraid? Of what?”

  “Afraid the longer the period of time that elapses, the greater the danger they will lose their ability to sustain their erection. And as we all know, there is only one word more frightening to men than the word commitment. Can you say impotent?”

  “No, can’t say as that word is in my vocabulary.”

  Nicole shot him a look and a one-word challenge: “Yet.”

  The audience went wild, applauding their standoff, as the producer signaled that they were out of time.

  NICOLE PULLED HER WHITE sports car out of traffic and parked.

  Unwinding from behind the wheel of the splashy, though inexpensive, car, she smiled. What, she wondered, would Anthony Gawain say if he could see her sports car, after the grief she’d given him about lusting after one?

  Her smile turned into a grimace as her headache returned full force, reminding her why she’d stopped at Vons. Pulling off the charade of being a sex therapist had been fun, but trying.

  The whole ordeal had given her a stress headache that required extra-strength aspirin and gave new meaning to the pet name she’d given him—Gawain the Pain. Accomplishing her goal of getting on “The Anthony Gawain Show” and giving him a hard time had been very satisfying. Now her head was presenting her with the check for the pleasure.

  A few minutes after ducking into Vons, she was back in her car and heading home, her head still pounding. After pulling out into traffic, she’d tried without success to wrench the childproof cap from the bottle of aspirin, enduring several horn blasts and rude gestures from passing motorists enraged by her erratic maneuvering.

  She gave up when she realized she didn’t have any liquid to take the tablets with. She was such a baby about pills, and there was no way she could swallow one without something to wash it down with. Driving until she spotted a Ralph’s, she pulled over and parked again to get some bottled water.

  While she stood in line at the checkout with the bottled water, she massaged her temple and ran through the show once again in her mind. She had had Anthony Gawain on the ropes, at least until the end of the show, when he’d rallied and their sparring had ended in a draw. Had her charade really been as successful as she thought?

  Rafe would tell her.

  Though he was years younger, he mothered her. Which was pretty funny, as men didn’t come much more macho than Rafe Contreras.

  The checker ran up her bottled water, and Nicole added a bag
of M&M’s on impulse, as well as an L.A. Times.

  Back at her car, she opened the tablets and washed one down with several swallows of the bottled water. By the time she had stopped at home and changed into something more casual for her shift at Le Bistro, her headache had subsided.

  She felt like Cinderella when she put the outfit she’d worn in the closet. It wasn’t that she didn’t dress up herself, it was only that the persona she’d assumed had been so daring.

  Rafe was waiting for her in the employees’ lounge when she arrived at Le Bistro. “Good job, lady. You turned him every which way but loose,” he said with open admiration.

  “Really? I really did?” She couldn’t hide her pleasure at his assessment.

  “I bet the ratings go through the roof and he’ll have to ask you back. And the sex-therapist stuff—even I was buying it. You really sounded like you knew what you were talking about.”

  Nicole laughed. “I’ll be back on that show over Anthony Gawain’s dead body. I may have gotten around his smarmy producer, but I didn’t exactly make a conquest of Gawain the Swain. By the end of the show, he was more than glad to see me go.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” Rafe told her. “His body language said he wanted to eat you up with a spoon—or maybe turn you over his knee. You cooked his goose but good, lady.”

  “I got to him, then?”

  “In spades. Trust me on that.”

  “Good.” Her revenge was sweet.

  “How do you know I got to him?” Nicole was embarrassed to hear herself ask the question. Rafe would think she was a total idiot when it came to men. Unfortunately, she was afraid a lot of the time she was. It would have been so helpful to have had a male influence growing up. As it was, she felt like she was dealing with aliens when it came to men. And when she was attracted to them, they were even more unfathomable.

  “Oh, you got to Gawain, all right,” Rafe assured her. “He’s a pretty cool customer when it comes to being in control of the interview. But you made him lose control. Remember, he promised to get back to what you lust after? Well, he forgot.” Rafe winked. “But I promise you, he’s thinking about it now.”

  “Oh, Rafe.”

  “I’m serious, lady,” he said, plucking the L.A. Times from her hand. Turning to the movie section, he scanned the page. “Want to go to the movies tonight to celebrate your success?” he asked without looking up.

  He was mothering her again. Nicole arched an eyebrow. “You don’t have a date?”

  “I want to see The Last of the Mohicans, and I don’t want to take a date.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’ll drool over Daniel Day-Lewis, and I do so hate damp popcorn.”

  “I don’t know, Rafe. Daniel Day-Lewis is pretty high on my drool meter.”

  “So you’ll buy your own popcorn.” Rafe set the newspaper down. “Time to go to work.”

  “Rafe …”

  He stopped on his way out of the lounge and looked back at her.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me, lady. You did good. I promise, you haven’t seen the last of Anthony Gawain.”

  “I’d better have. I mean, after all, Rafe, scamming as a sex therapist for one show is one thing, but I couldn’t possibly keep up the charade. I got my revenge, and that’s all I wanted from getting on the show. I don’t know why you think he hasn’t already forgotten who I am.”

  “Well, for one thing, you got to him. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was that you battled him to a draw. Men like clear victories, you know. And you did it in front of an audience, which is even more galling. Trust me, it’s gonna bug him until he gets a chance to win a clear-cut victory over you.”

  As Nicole watched Rafe leave the lounge, she shook her head.

  He was a little late with his warning.

  Anthony Gawain had already settled the score. While he’d appeared intrigued with her, he hadn’t made a pass. Though she would have rebuffed him, she couldn’t help feeling more than a little rejected—and supremely annoyed with herself for feeling that way.

  She thought of her mother and two sisters, who looked like triplets. If only she were beautiful like they were. All three of them were blond, blue-eyed, all American cheerleader types, with dimples to boot.

  She, on the other hand, had average-brown hair and eyes. Her mother had always insisted she looked exotic, but Nicole didn’t feel anything but plain next to the three of them.

  The only way she’d been able to even attempt to pull off the seductive act for the Anthony Gawain Show was because it had been just that—an act. She’d assumed the part, pretending she was beautiful and desirable.

  In real life she had no confidence in her appearance.

  And with men, appearance was what counted. Every survey or study she’d ever come across in a magazine confirmed that every man on the planet wanted a beautiful, sexy woman to decorate his arm. It was how he was judged by the world, and how he judged his own worth, as well.

  And while it annoyed her to be rejected by Anthony Gawain, it annoyed her even more that she was attracted to him. Had she inherited her mother’s weakness for men who would always leave? Her mother, with all her beauty, had never been able to hold a man’s continuing interest, so how could she hope to?

  If she were interested—and she wasn’t—she couldn’t pick a man more impossible to hold than Anthony Gawain.

  The talk-show host might be hip, smug and arrogant, but he was no fool. Talk shows brought in big bucks, mostly because they were cheap to produce. His audience was young and attractive to advertisers.

  Unlike other talk-show hosts, Anthony Gawain didn’t scramble for famous guests. He didn’t pander to his audience, either. His show was about ideas, not people. He had brains. His bottom-line appeal was the fact that he was a high-IQ rebel with a strong sense of the absurd. He was every inch the wandering knight in search of the truth.

  In other words, if she were trying, she couldn’t find a better blind date from hell for herself.

  And while she might be attracted to Anthony Gawain, she knew enough to steer clear of his particular brand of heartbreak.

  Rafe was wrong. Anthony Gawain would never call her.

  She told herself it didn’t matter, because she wouldn’t agree to see him again if he did call.

  How could she?

  She wasn’t a sex therapist.

  She wasn’t even sexy.

  But it had been exciting to pretend.

  3

  Los Angeles Times

  Entertainment News:

  ITEM… Everyone is still talking about Gawain the Swain and the sexy sex therapist who rocked him back on his heels. That particular show in the What Do Women Want? series kicked his ratings into the stratosphere. This columnist wonders if Anthony Gawain will be seeing more of the sexy sex therapist.

  ANTHONY GAWAIN scowled at the newspaper in his hand.

  The columnist was creating something from thin air again, just as she’d created the reputation as a ladies’ man that had gained him such a wide audience.

  His grin was rueful as he pictured Nicole Hart … “the sexy sex therapist.” Well, maybe his favorite columnist hadn’t fabricated the item completely from thin air, he admitted to himself, tossing down the newspaper and heading for the shower.

  He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror.

  A late night at Roxbury, the hot club of the hour, showed in his half-shuttered eyes and stubbled chin. He hadn’t left his booth all night, had just sat watching the dancing while the pounding music numbed his mind. He hadn’t gone to the VIP Room. His ego didn’t need it.

  Shrugging out of his navy robe in his high-tech bathroom of gray granite, chrome, and white tile, he continued to think of Nicole Hart. The loud music and the shots of Jack Daniel’s bourbon hadn’t gotten her off his mind. The columnist was right about her being sexy, and he’d been attracted to her mightily
.

  But she was a little too glib for his taste.

  When it came down to it, he preferred a woman he could really talk with. A woman who listened and participated rather than performed. Even though Nicole Hart’s performance had been very stimulating in its way.

  Sometimes he wished he were the sort of man who didn’t think so much, wished he could take things at face value without looking for the truth. The sort of man who saw everything in black-and-white, didn’t notice the shadings of gray.

  He’d rebelled against his political family and the image of perfection they’d wanted him to uphold. At an early age he’d learned about half-truths and damage control, and he’d hated it.

  The truth was all that mattered to him. It couldn’t hurt the way lies could. And the truth was the appeal of his shocking TV talk show.

  He knew all about women like Nicole Hart. Like most women, she wanted a man she could dupe. She’d even said as much, with her “extra paycheck and quick toss” lines. No. Nicole Hart wasn’t for him. What he wanted was a simple, uncomplicated woman without a hidden agenda—if such a woman existed.

  Turning the water on full blast, he stepped into the oversize shower stall. The steamy mist swirled around him, fogging the glass enclosure. The tile floor was cool beneath his feet while the hot water rained stinging drops against his skin. He stretched, letting the water sluice down his lean frame to form rivulets through his hair. Then he quickly finished his shower using a bar of milled soap subtly scented with his favorite designer aroma.

  Forty-five minutes later, he was at Patrick’s Road house for his weekly breakfast meeting with Mark.

  “You’re late,” Mark said as Anthony slid into the chair opposite him. “I took the liberty of ordering your usual.”

  “All I want is coffee, and lots of it,” Anthony growled. He ignored the copy of the L.A. Times lying folded in the middle of the table. Mark had opened it to the column in the Entertainment News.

  “Did you see the column?” Mark asked.

  Anthony nodded.

  “So, are you?” Mark asked as the waitress brought their order and set it down on the table before them.