Finally, she and Alyssa reached the top of the landing. The blonde led her through the door at the end of the hall, into a small but surprising luxurious suite.
Alyssa shut the door behind them, blocking out the loudest of the music’s throb. The floor beneath them still shook. The sexy tempo resonated around her, stark in its suggestion.
Morgan looked around the room. A large, rumpled bed lazed in the center, as a standing lamp cast muted golden light over the white sheets. Hardwood floors gleamed cherry beneath her feet. Soft beige walls accented flowing white sheers at the large window. Four black-and-white landscape photographs formed a grouping above the bed.
“You were expecting a red bedroom with a stripper pole in the middle?” Alyssa asked with a cocked brow.
Embarrassment stung Morgan. She had wondered… “I had no idea what to expect. This is lovely.”
Some of the starch bled out of Alyssa. “It’s peaceful. C’mon, let’s get you out of that ugly rag.”
Before she could ask for privacy and a bathrobe, Alyssa was unbuttoning Morgan’s coat and prying it off her shoulders.
With a casual toss to the bed, the coat flew away. Like the mom of a toddler, Alyssa reached next for Morgan’s purse and subdued floral-print T-shirt. Before she could sputter a protest, the stripper had them over her head and tossed them on the floor.
“If you’ll point me to a bathroom, I can undress—”
Alyssa ignored her and plucked at the front clasp of her lacy white bra. With a drag and a tug, it was gone…and Morgan stood nude from the waist up before a total stranger.
Alyssa studied Morgan’s breasts, lifting one in her hand to test its weight. “We can work with these.”
Morgan tensed, resisting the urge to cover herself like a self-conscious seventh grader in a locker room. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t have anything I ain’t seen, honey. 34C.” Another glance over the rest of her body, and Alyssa added, “You wear a size six. Right?”
“How did you know?”
She smiled. “It’s my business. Strip out of everything else and hang tight.”
Alyssa disappeared out the door, shutting it gently behind her. Morgan stared after her. Strip out of everything else? Like it was easy. Like she took her clothes off every day in front of people she’d never met. Well, Alyssa probably did, so it probably didn’t faze her in the least. And Morgan realized that if she wanted to get out of here without a bullet in the head, she’d better get over her modesty quickly.
With a sigh, she took off her jeans and white cotton panties, folding them neatly and setting them on the edge of the bed. She looked around for a robe or spare blanket. A towel—anything to cover herself. Nothing. Morgan was not accustomed to prancing around without a stitch on. Clearly, that didn’t trouble Alyssa.
The blonde returned with a black satin bra and a matching thong. With her teeth, she ripped the tags off, slipped a pair of gel inserts into the bra, and handed it all to Morgan.
Before Morgan could ask for privacy, Alyssa disappeared again, this time into the suite’s adjoining bathroom. Grateful for the reprieve from the woman’s keen gaze, Morgan wriggled into the thong. Not comfortable—who wanted a string up their ass?— but a perfect fit.
Alyssa emerged from the bathroom, carrying some very brief garments and her black high-heeled boots. In the doorway, the blonde paused, waiting. Morgan pretended not to notice her. Instead, she frowned at the gel inserts in the bra. The grown-up version of wadded-up tissues?
When Morgan winced, Alyssa laughed. “You gotta do what you gotta do. They’re like an instant boob job. With clothes on, no one will know the difference.”
Releasing the breath she’d been holding, Morgan realized that was likely true. She had no business bemoaning the fact she wasn’t a D cup.
Morgan began to don the bra, acutely aware of Alyssa watching her every move. It was damn uncomfortable. She’d kill to have Alyssa’s easy attitude about nudity, but she just hadn’t been raised that way. She had been nearly twenty-one before she’d worked up the nerve to masturbate. After all, with a born-again mother who’d sent her to an all-girls’ school, she’d heard little about sex before turning eighteen. Until she’d gone to college, Morgan hadn’t really known the difference between her cuticles and her clit.
Pushing away the thought, Morgan fastened the bra and lifted her breasts into the cups—what there was of them. The bra was slung low on wire-thin straps. A slash of black lace barely covered each of her nipples. The gel inserts pushed the top swells of her breasts up and out on display. Instant cleavage.
Alyssa whistled and shot her a saucy look. “I’ll give you a piece of advice: Don’t show Jack your tits unless you want to drive him insane with lust.”
The blonde turned away, heading back into the bathroom. Morgan stared at the woman’s slender back and silky blonde strands clinging to her shoulders.
Centerfolds were less attractive than Alyssa. Though probably over thirty, she was still very striking. Morgan knew for a fact, based on Reggie’s extensive research, Jack wasn’t gay. Given those facts, it seemed logical that he and Alyssa were…involved. From the woman’s offhanded comment, it sounded like Alyssa didn’t care if she enticed Jack.
Lord, she’d left Los Angeles, where she’d always thought of life as being somewhat surreal, and landed in Cajun country, a place she began to suspect was the south’s version of Oz.
“I don’t plan to show Jack my breasts,” she said, adjusting the bra, wishing for more cover.
“Maybe not, but ten bucks says he plans to see them.”
Morgan frowned. “Based on what? I was interviewing Jack for my show. And then, when the shooting started, he offered to protect me—”
“And he will. He’s the best. But Jack Cole is a breast man, and you’ve got a great rack.”
As if she’d just announced something as mundane as night falling, Alyssa turned and lifted a makeup case off the counter. Setting the case aside, She studied Morgan’s face with nothing more than a mild case of impatience.
“That doesn’t bother you?” Morgan couldn’t resist asking.
Her gaze strayed to the bedding, looking too rumpled to be caused by mere sleep. Morgan wondered if Jack had been here before meeting her—and why the thought bothered her.
“That Jack might fuck you?” She shrugged. “He’s not mine.”
Morgan frowned. Too weird. “Nothing’s going to happen between us. I have no intention of getting involved with Jack.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Alyssa shot back with a throaty laugh.