Satan Wears Satin

CHAPTER ONE Ambush In Scarlet Satin The oppressive August heat coaxed beads of sweat from Vance Gamble’s forehead during the short walk from his air-conditioned BMW to the entrance of the dining hall at Brandyhaven Country Club in one of Philadelphia’s tony suburbs. Even the clouds rolling in from the west offered no relief, yet. Vance stopped inside the foyer to cool off and let his eyes adjust to the artificial lighting—subdued, even compared to overcast skies. A wry smile crossed his lips while he pondered the cherry wood wainscoting. He thought, No cherries here! A stunning brunette sss with dark eyes and a detached expression approached. “May I help you, sir?” Her uniform pants, tie, and the trim of her white shirt all glared a bright red, matching the central coat-of-arms in an ostentatious display on the wall above the wood paneling. Her sleek, black high-heeled boots punctuated her otherwise functional—though well-filled—uniform with two kinky-sexy exclamation points. Did she step out of a dream? he wondered. Or a nightmare? Aloud, he said, “I’m Vance Gamble. Matt Dorman invited me.” Her name badge read, “Ms. Ryder.” Different spelling, he mused, but her name fits: Woman on Top. She’s not “Ms. Ridden.” “Welcome to Brandyhaven.” The subtlety of her hand lovingly caressing the nightstick at her belt looked habitual, if not instinctive. Her calculating eyes hinted that she wanted Vance to step out of line so she could club him. “My first name is Nastassia.” “After the star of Cat People?” Vance’s gray eyes surveyed her from head to toe. Her physique suited her role as security guard. Her high heels elevated her higher than Vance’s six-foot height, and she weighed much less than his one-eighty. And what a difference in the distribution of flesh! “After the actress,” she confirmed, “except she spells her name with a j in place of the i.” She studied his face instead of smiling. “My friends call me ‘Nastia—or Nastier.’” Vance avoided her hypnotic eyes. “What do your enemies call you??” “Unconstitutional.” Vance succumbed to those untamed windows to her soul. He should retreat—or run—from Nastassia. She probably got off by crushing riffraff like him to protect the spoiled, filthy rich club members. But he stayed. “I don’t understand,” he confessed. “I’m cruel and unusual punishment.” He gasped involuntarily. “Beauty with a beat,” he blurted out—and instantly regretted his remark. “Cross me, and you’ll find out.” She raised one eyebrow haughtily. “Listen, Nastier, or Ms. Ryder, or whatever flavor-of-the-week you are, I don’t belong to this club. Big deal. I could pay membership dues several times over.” “Good for you.” She looked bored. Nastassia’s indifference enflamed him. “I’ve played Wall Street into a good life. Sure, I work my butt off. But that’s better than these snobs, sitting on their fat assets, purchasing whatever they want. Including you. And Matt, bought and paid for by Sable Brandenburg.” He adjusted his tie as if to punctuate his venting. She rested her hand on his arm. “Somebody’s testosterone is just a smidgen too active,” she cooed. “Good day, Mr. Grumble. I mean, Gamble.” He seethed. “Don’t you have a life? Get a hobby.” Walking away, she winked over her shoulder. “I play the organ!” Heading to Matt’s table, Vance left his frown in place. “Hi, Matt. Did you see that uppity b***h?” Vance eased into his chair, and a waiter swooped down—another tool of the rich. “I’m Buzz—” “Water with lemon,” Vance cut off the over-solicitous vulture’s spiel. He refrained from “Buzz off” because that dismissal would have lacked originality. “Ribeye, rare. Plain baked potato and salad. And a glass of the club’s merlot.” “Excellent choice, sir.” “I’ll bet you say that to all the guys.” The waiter fought down a sneer and retreated. “Why so rough?” Matt asked reasonably. His forehead wrinkled over his dark, horn-rimmed glasses and bushy, black eyebrows. His hair was salt and pepper. “Hate this place. Gives me claustrophobia. I’d rather kick back with some Iron City Beer and watch the Pirates. Or just drink, the way the Pirates are playing.” “Click your heels, Vance. You’re not in Pittsburgh anymore. Quit grousing. This is my treat. I mean, Ms. Brandenburg’s.” “No such thing as a free lunch.” Matt winced and smiled, nodding in agreement. After the waiter placed Vance’s glass of water and salad plate before him, Vance prodded. “So, what does Ms. Brandenburg want from her lapdog this time?” “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.” Matt fidgeted with his silverware. “You’re as hopeless as my college buddy, Frank Prince. A rich widow in New York, Catherine Roman, uses him like a rented mule.” “Better than unloading dud stocks all day. How’s Arch treating you?” Arch Grubber owned and managed Landry and Grubber, the brokerage house where Vance worked. Pierce Landry, the other founding partner, had sold out and moved to Pittsburgh years earlier, but Arch thought Landry sounded more palatable than Grubber and left the name intact. “I push enough company-underwritten stocks to earn my freedom. So I can invest wisely for clients like Ms. Brandenburg.” He sipped his water. “Let me guess: she wants you to turn a pittance into a huge, quick profit. Does she like quickies in general?” “I wouldn’t know,” Matt grinned. “Tell me what you know. I’ve got time.” Half under his breath, Matt mumbled, “Less time than you think.” He faced Vance squarely. “Ms. Brandenburg appreciates the way you invest her money. As carefully as your own. So, she told me to treat you to lunch.” “Her thanks should be up-close and personal.” “What about Elise? Those widow ladies are relentless in their search for a new man. And what if Sable’s husband caught you?” “Elise and I aren’t married.” Vance took a gulp of water. “What does Ms. Brandenburg look like? And how big is Mr. Brandenburg?” “He’s not a Brandenburg. Sable kept her maiden name. Her family comes from the Main Line of Philadelphia. His doesn’t.” “Good for him! Mainlining is unhealthy. What’s his name?” Dramatically, a five-foot-eight, buxom blonde strode into the dining hall. The scarlet luster of her dress and matching satin gloves dominated the room. Vance realized the shade exactly matched the centrally placed coat of arms on the wall—and the red in Nastassia’s security guard uniform. Sable Brandenburg wore a single strand of large pearls. Their off-white color suggested they were like her breasts—natural, not cultured. Sable looked scrumptious. Her satin-wrapped breasts, probably 36-Ds, resembled two huge candy apples, still hot and glossy, and her hair swirled up into an oversized, golden double-scoop of vanilla ice cream. Straining the lustrous fabric of her high-neck dress, her flesh rippled sensually, stiffening Vance’s c**k, and he drooled lightly for her hard, covered n*****s. Sable rewarded Vance’s aroused gaze by accelerating her grinding strides, escalating her fleshy shimmies to swift, powerful ripples of well-conditioned flesh. Even her bouncing pearls stoked Vance’s furnace. “Ms. Brandenburg,” Matt needlessly pointed out. Vance mutely watched Sable walk past without acknowledging them. She chose a spot far enough away to afford Vance a glimpse under the table. Aiming her body toward him, she settled into the chair that the solicitous vulture slid under her fabulous ass, crossed her right leg over her left, and bounced it rhythmically. Her dress hem inched back to tease Jack with a glimpse of stocking rim. Stockings, not pantyhose. Vance’s heart raced. Still facing her, he said to Matt, “Remember the carnival when you were a kid? Ever try to gorge yourself to the brink of getting sick?” Matt scoffed. “No way, Vance. She’ll never let you near her goodies.” Currents of Sable’s nearly-forty-year-old maturity alternated with the energy of her young spirit through her body, especially her leg. Her elaborate yawn, a casual flirtation with Vance, challenged him to excite her. He yearned to lick her apples and thrust his desperate c**k into her. Sable’s patent scarlet pump, dangling from the ball of her foot, lured his eyes to her tantalizing balancing act. Did she cling to all of her possessions as deftly as she kept her shoe from falling? “Five hundred says I can bed her,” Vance said. Matt took five hundred dollars from his wallet. “You’re on. Show me the money.” Vance took out his wallet and counted out the correct sum. Adding Vance’s money to his own, Matt stood up. “Ms. Brandenburg will hold our bets. But I won’t tell her what we’re betting on!” He scurried to her table before Vance could speak. Reaching under the table, Sable pulled her dress back slightly, enough to flash Vance with her creamy thighs, accented in scarlet garters. She smoothed out her dress, pretending that her initial gesture was to cover up, not reveal. Vance raised his clear gray eyes to her Prussian blue eyes and felt her darker hue dominate him. Set against creamy skin, her large eyes highlighted her Teutonic allure. Vance suspected that, like Otto von Bismarck, she’d build her empire with blood and iron: men’s blood and her iron will. Her pouty, scarlet-glossed lips taunted Vance. He blinked. Damn! She stared me down. When Sable’s scarlet-gloved hand tucked Vance’s and Matt’s money into her pocketbook, Vance felt an erotic rush, fantasizing that she was robbing them in broad daylight—and a sinking realization that she really was swindling them. Yet, he craved her voluptuous flesh so intensely that he mentally embraced her wickedness and exalted it. He just wished… Nailing him with her smug look, she rose and slinked toward the salad bar. The gentle, rolling sway of her hips and the wiggle of her ass under shiny, scarlet satin pulled Vance to his feet. He rushed to her side, despite the bulge in his pants. “Sable—” “You may call me Ms. Brandenburg, Vance.” “Thank you.” He cringed at his brainless surrender, aimlessly gathering salad items with the tongs. The upsweep of her hair added the illusion of length to her face and height to her body. “So, Brandyhaven is a play on your family name,” he observed. “You have such a perceptive grasp of the obvious.” The natural arch of her brows became more acute. “Why not ‘Brandy Heaven?’” he challenged. He sized her up as Matt’s height, maybe two or three inches shorter without high heels. She picked up his gauntlet. “No, darling. I’m Brandy Heaven. Brandy’s my nickname. I can take you to celestial bliss. But your life, as you know it, will be over.” Her cheeks dimpled. Her fleshiness seduced Vance the way overindulgence in butter sated his urge toward self-indulgence when a less expensive spread would suffice. Even an elderly man near the salad bar stared at Sable in open admiration until his wife nudged him along. Vance stood frozen in place. His cell phone jarred him from his paralysis. “Excuse me,” he said, putting his plate on the counter of the salad bar. Removing the phone from his coat pocket, he glanced at the caller ID number and pushed the “talk” button. Lowering his voice, and his eyes, he said, “Hi, Elise! I was just thinking about you. May I call you back?” Foolishly, he added, “I’m in an important conference.” Sable’s loud, earthy giggle erupted—and undoubtedly reached Elise’s ears—before Vance frantically ended the call. Sable’s throaty mirth effused s*x: musically, aurally seducing him, celebrating her raunchy sensuality, and brazenly proclaiming, f**k you, Elise; I’ve got your man. “Don’t worry.” Her satin-clad fingers clutched his arm. His skin tingled. “You’re not Elise’s type.” “How do you know?” “You’re alive.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Her two previous husbands are dead.” She tightened her grip with the word “dead” before releasing Vance’s arm. “Care to explain?” “Your phone is just like mine,” Sable changed the subject. She sent another pleasant chill through him when her gloved hand touched the phone—and Vance’s hand. She fingered the pearls in her necklace: a visual reminder of how she toyed with Vance. Her body was so erect that her breasts stared back at him. When he raised his glance, she locked his eyes into hers. Lowering her voice, she said, “Meet me in the enclosed glass gazebo behind the tennis courts. Five minutes after I leave here.” She turned and walked back to her table, and her scarlet-swathed derriere seduced Vance’s silent acquiescence to her command. Vance cherished the gazebo, where he and Elise first met, reminiscent of the romantic liaisons from The Sound of Music. Returning to his seat, however, he now pictured more lust than love. Despite the relative seclusion and the frosted-glass walls, the gazebo posed a risk of exposure that would quicken his pulse during any tryst. Vance cut his strips of steak too large and swallowed before chewing thoroughly. s****l arousal always made him hungry for food, too, but played hell with his digestion. Sable ignored his probing, intrusive glances. Finally, her subtle nod summoned the unctuous vulture with her check. Gesturing toward Vance and Matt, she instructed him to add their meals to her ticket. She signed the check—a symbolic delivery receipt for two boytoys—rose, picked up her pocketbook, and marched, eyes-front, past Vance. Her tight, subtle smile faintly acknowledged his rapt devotion. When she reached the door, she smiled over her shoulder at him. Vance ran his hand back through his thick brown hair, gripped the table to anchor himself, and nodded to confirm their rendezvous. After struggling through five minutes of mounting suspense, Vance growled, “I’m outa here.” Matt grinned. “I’ll put the five hundred to good use.”