Dirty Business: Fantasies Unleashed 1

  DIRTY BUSINESS

  Fantasies Unleashed 1

  by Mara Leigh

  Vicky has been publicly dubbed an Ice Queen. While this helps in her male dominated industry, as a woman it stings. Appearing as the keynote speaker at a huge Las Vegas conference, Vicky secretly defies her public persona, fulfilling her fantasy to be secretly sexually aroused in public. But when one of the men she encounters wants more than sex, it brings all her assumptions into question, revealing new desires-and the possibility of love.

  This is the first installment in the hot new Fantasies Unleashed series.

  Copyright

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Mara Leigh

  Cover design © Mara Leigh

  Cover photo DollarPhotoClub.com

  Digital edition 1.0

  ISBN: 978-0-9938559-3-1

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  Welcome

  * * *

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  Table of Contents

  Welcome

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Note to Readers

  Sneak Peek of Bedded by Strangers

  Titles by Mara Leigh

  Chapter One

  * * *

  Vicky was glad her suite was the only one on the top floor of the luxury Las Vegas hotel. This way, no one would witness her meeting a pimp. Or should she say madam? Neither label seemed to fit the sophisticated woman standing at her door.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Eleanor Rigby, president and founder of Fantasies Unleashed.”

  As Eleanor extended her slender hand to shake, Vicky guessed that the woman was in her early forties, not many years older than she—although her upswept gray hair gave her the gravitas of a much older woman.

  “Very pleased to meet you.” Vicky gestured for Eleanor to enter, and closed the door behind her. “Is that really your name?”

  “My parents were fans.” Eleanor waited in the foyer, her black stiletto pumps contrasting against the white marbled floor of the spacious entryway. In one hand she held a dove-gray handbag, and in the other a matching briefcase.

  “Your bags are beautiful,” Vicky said. “I don’t recognize the brand.”

  “Oh, they aren’t any particular brand,” Eleanor said, as if she were dismissing her accessories as cheap knockoffs, when clearly they weren’t. Even without touching them, Vicky could spot the quality of the soft leather, the precision of the stitching, the strength in the handles and clasps. “Were they custom made?”

  “Yes,” Eleanor smiled. “Someone I found in Milan.”

  “You must give me his information.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Vicky had an unmistakable feeling that under different circumstances this woman could be her friend, which was crazy. Even disregarding the woman’s profession, Vicky strictly avoided personal relationships with employees, vendors, potential donors or grant recipients from her foundation.

  Since that pretty much covered everyone on the planet, except for Susanna and Elaine whom she’d known since third grade when her family had moved to New York, Vicky had no real friends. But while this couldn’t be more than business, Eleanor certainly excelled at putting her clients at ease. She was good at her job, and Vicky admired that. A lot.

  “Please”—she strode down the hall toward the suite’s main room—“let’s sit so we can get down to business.” She’d intended to use the dining room table for today’s negotiations, but instead she chose the more relaxed setting of the sofas, gathered in front of the gas fireplace in her large suite, dozens of stories above the Las Vegas strip. There was enough seating in the living room for thirty, but there was no way she’d ever entertain or hold any real meetings in her hotel room at a conference—that’s what private meeting rooms were for. This encounter required extra discretion.

  She gestured toward one of the white leather sofas decorated with burnt orange and burgundy throw cushions, and Eleanor sat, putting the elegant handbag beside her and the briefcase on the heavy glass coffee table.

  “Would you like coffee or tea?” Vicky asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  What a relief. Vicky wasn’t certain where to find such things in the suite, even though she knew both would be available quickly if she called the penthouse concierge.

  She’d given her assistant, Evan, the afternoon off, and based on the look on the handsome twenty-six-year-old’s face when she’d told him, she’d nearly given him a heart attack. When he recovered, he’d gushed his gratitude, thinking that she’d granted him time off because this conference was in Las Vegas, a place he’d made it clear he’d been dying to visit.

  It had felt good to do something nice for the kid. He was very loyal and worked hard—one of the best assistants she’d ever had—but her motives had been less than altruistic. No one, not even Evan, who was privy to nearly all her confidential business deals, could know what she had planned over the upcoming days.

  Vicky sat in the chair across from Eleanor, staying right at the edge so that the soles of her nude Louboutins could rest on the royal blue carpet. With her short stature and slight build, Vicky often had to make adjustments to avoid looking like a child when seated in a chair. In fact, she had to be cognizant of many such things. It was bad enough that people were only interested in her for her money. Show one hint of weakness and no one would take a five-foot-three, one-hundred-and-ten-pound woman seriously.

  Vicky had to create her gravitas from her posture, her clothing, from her dyed-nearly-black and severely cut shoulder-length hair, currently upswept in a bun.

  Eleanor opened her briefcase. “I’ve made a selection of fantasy facilitators who would excel at fulfilling your particular fantasy. You may select whichever one, or ones, you prefer.”

  She handed a leather-bound portfolio to Vicky. Inside were photographs of the most stunning men Vicky had ever seen, as well as some beautiful women. She kept her expression neutral, trying to look bored as she flipped through her choices. “I can’t tell from a photo.” She set the portfolio on her lap. “Is there a way that I could meet some of the men? Hold interviews?”

  “Certainly,” Eleanor said, “but let’s discuss your fantasy further, first. Can you reiterate your needs?”

  Vicky rested her hand on the chair’s arm. “I’d prefer if you explained your current understanding of my needs.” She’d already gone through the embarrassment of telling this woman what she wanted once. Plus, she’d learned over the
years that she often got better results during negotiations when she let the individual on the other side of the table make offers.

  Her negotiating skills had helped to earn her the moniker Ice Queen. She’d known about the nickname for a while, but seeing it in a bright white font over her portrait on the cover of last month’s Fortune magazine had stung. In fact, if Vicky were honest with herself, it had sparked her desire to bring her fantasy to life.

  Eleanor smoothed her hand over the light wool of her pale blue skirt. “Your fantasy, as I understand it, is to have secret sexual encounters while attending an important business conference. And you want to be turned on and feel sexual in front of a crowd without their knowledge.” Eleanor leaned slightly forward. “Reading between the lines, I also believe you’d like to be surprised.”

  “Surprised?”

  “The element of surprise is not necessary.” Eleanor took a leather-bound notebook from her briefcase. “If you like, we can plan ahead for every detail.”

  Vicky pressed her shoes into the carpet. “Surprise sounds... interesting.” She handed the portfolio of men back to Eleanor. “In fact, I think it’s best if I have no idea who’ll be approaching me.”

  “As you wish.” Eleanor nodded. “We’ll devise a way for you to identify the men, so that you know they’re one of my staff and not some random stranger.”

  “I doubt that will be a problem.”

  “Forgive me, but why not? Surely men approach you all the time.”

  Vicky forced herself to keep eye contact. “Not for sex.”

  “I find that very hard to believe.”

  “If they did, why would I need to hire you?”

  “People hire my company for lots of reasons,” Eleanor said in a comforting tone. “Some of our clients don’t want to share their fantasies with their partners or friends; some are lonely; some are suffering through grief or trauma, and our staff help them cope. And yes, some of our clients have difficulties meeting sexual partners, but you certainly don’t fit into that last category.”

  “Yes, of course.” She’d revealed more of herself than she’d meant to. “But if your man makes his intentions clear, that he’s interested in sex, I’m confident I won’t have a problem identifying him.”

  Eleanor shifted forward. “I prefer to have safeguards to ensure my clients remain safe.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vicky said. “I only meet three kinds of men at these events: those who want to talk business, those who are too drunk to talk business, and those who are too intimidated by my position to approach me in the first place.” She shook her head. “My money, my position, my power. Any men I meet in social situations are so worried about pleasing me they forget that they’re men.”

  Eleanor set the portfolio and notebook into her briefcase. “I take it you like strong men, then. Assertive.”

  Vicky drew a long breath. “I don’t want a Neanderthal or anything like that. I don’t want an arrogant asshole who thinks he can push me around. I want a partner, an equal. And in my position, such men don’t exist.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “Bill Gates is married,” she joked.

  “Bill Gates is your type?”

  Vicky laughed, in spite of herself. “No. In fact, if you send me a guy who looks like Bill—” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then looked back to Eleanor. “What I mean is that the billionaire population is limited, especially self-made ones, and most men are intimidated by women with money. The men who attend these conferences come off insipid, especially when talking to me one on one.” She rested her hands on her knees. “Listen, we’ve gotten off track. I’m not looking for love here.” She shook her head. “They call me the Ice Queen, you know.”

  “Who does?”

  “My staff, the technology and philanthropic communities at large. Fortune magazine.” She drew a long breath. “If I were a man, I’d be seen as powerful, strong, no matter what I looked like.”

  “Bill Gates.”

  “Exactly! But as a woman, I’m either seen as tiny and weak—”

  “Surely not.”

  “Not anymore. But the ways I’ve learned to deal with that problem have created another. An Ice Queen problem.”

  “I see.”

  “For the duration of this two-day conference I don’t want to feel like an Ice Queen. I still want to look like one, mind you, but I want to feel sexy and feminine. I want what I’m feeling inside to be the opposite of what I’m portraying in public.”

  “That”—Eleanor rose—“is something I know we can help you with.”

  “Fantastic.” Vicky reached out to shake Eleanor’s hand.

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Vicky stood with her assistant, Evan, near the edge of the opening reception. All around her, men and women chatted in groups under a dozen large chandeliers that scattered light over the formal wear of the thousands of attendees at this think-tank-style conference. She couldn’t remember the conference’s title. They’d all started to blur. She enjoyed public speaking, and while her appearances always improved donations to the Foundation, attending these events had grown tedious.

  This one might be less so. She wished she’d asked Eleanor what time her fantasy would begin. Would a man approach her at the cocktail party tonight? She was beginning to question adding the element of surprise to the mix. How long had it been since someone or something had truly surprised her?

  A tall man in a sleek tux approached them, his hand extended.

  “Gregory Hoffman, president of Monitor Electronics,” Evan whispered in her ear.

  “Greg.” She quickly shook his hand. “How lovely to see you. How are you enjoying Las Vegas?”

  “Ms. Adams,” he said, as if he weren’t a couple of decades older. “I’m looking forward to your keynote tomorrow at lunch.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind.”

  “And I’m glad to run into you tonight. I’ve got a strategic opportunity I think you’d be interested in. Monitor is expanding—”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Adams.” Evan stepped closer. “You have an important call.” He held out his phone. Some people thought she should hire security guards for events like this, but while Evan might not be prize-fighter-sized, he was good at shutting down these usually harmless and always unwanted encounters.

  “I’m sorry, Greg.” Vicky took the phone. “I need to take this. Please contact my office to set something up.” Vicky put the phone to her ear and pretended to listen to the audio book Evan had playing until Greg walked away. She handed the telephone back to Evan. “Thank you.”

  “Always, boss.” The young man grinned. “How long do you plan to stay at this thing?”

  “Another half hour or so. Long enough to have registered an appearance.” It seemed rude to the organizers not to show.

  As she turned back to the crowd, she brought her champagne flute to her lips, taking a bigger sip than normal. As skilled as she was in every other facet of business, she’d never mastered the large cocktail party, and while her reluctance to mingle at such events added to her Ice Queen image, she preferred doing business in a more controlled manner. And it was not like anyone ever wanted to talk to her about anything else.

  A tall, thin man caught her eye and lumbered toward her, his buckteeth fitting perfectly with his buzz cut and protruding ears. Definitely not one of Eleanor’s men.

  He staggered to the side, then over-corrected, almost falling in the other direction, raising his glass and smiling as if he thought his moves were suave. She felt bad for the guy, but if there was anything worse than being hit up for business deals at cocktail parties, it was having it happen with a man who was obviously drunk.

  She touched Evan’s arm. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”

  “Sure, boss.” He started to follow, but she stopped him. “I think I can manage this alone. Keep that guy from following, okay? I’ll be back soon.”

  Evan was very good at running
interference, but at the moment she wanted to be alone. Just for a few minutes. And maybe it would give the man from Fantasies Unleashed a chance to approach.

  Stopping just past the restrooms, in a narrow corridor that led to a service area, she leaned back against the wall. Her feet were killing her. She stepped out of one shoe and flexed her foot. The platform pumps might give her an extra six inches in height, but they weren’t meant for walking, and every destination in these Vegas hotels seemed a mile apart.

  “You as bored in there as I am?” a deep voice said.

  She turned to see an amazingly gorgeous man in what looked like a rent-a-tux. He loosened his cheap-looking bow tie.

  “That depends on how bored you are,” she said. Was this him? It had to be. He certainly didn’t look like a CEO or captain of industry. She was almost disappointed in Eleanor that she didn’t provide better clothes for her staff.

  He extended his hand. “I’m—”

  “Let’s not exchange names.”

  “Okay.” He tipped his head to the side as she took his hand. He didn’t pump her arm ferociously like some men did, but his handshake wasn’t weak either, and his fingers, warm and strong, engulfed hers.

  He held her hand longer than was necessary and she brushed her thumb against his palm as she let go.

  “You here for the conference?” he asked.

  Final evidence that this was Eleanor’s man. Anyone really attending the conference would know who she was. “I sure am. And you?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Either you are or you’re not.” She shifted her weight back onto the foot with the shoe, and rose up to within five or six inches of his considerable height.

  “In that case, I suppose that I’m here.” He pulled his name tag partway out of his pocket and grinned. “At least they gave me a badge when I signed in.”

  She was impressed that Eleanor had gone to the expense of registering her man. The conference was pricy. She’d left her badge with Evan.