Free The Reckoning by Dan Thomas

fell into her eyes and needed whipping back with a casual swirl of her head. And whereas some women in business made the mistake of trying to dress just like their male competitors, Monica’s blue wool business suit (color matched to her eyes) was cut with a decidedly feminine flair. Also, she kept the jewelry to a tasteful minimum: no nouveau riche displays of diamond cocktail rings the size of glass doorknobs for this one. Instead, she wore just a simple gold bracelet and a gold Rolex.
    The lady was beautiful. The lady was commanding. The lady was very, very formidable.
    “Well,” she said, setting a leather portfolio case on his desk. “Down to business.”
    “Certainly.”
    “You come highly recommended, Royce. According to Gary Ames, you practically walk on water.”
    He shrugged the compliment away. “Gary’s a good friend. How do you know him?”
    “Socially. The symphony board. Some charity work. And I bank with him, or I should say my business does.”
    “Which is?”
    “Retail. Lady’s apparel. I have a boutique on Old South Gaylord Street.”
    “Successful?”
    Monica shone proudly. “Very.”
    He grinned. “Then you certainly don’t need me.”
    “But I do, because I want to expand now.”
    The woman’s chest seemed to be advancing on his desktop.
    “Expand?”
    “Mail order, on a national basis, and the Net.”
    Royce’s mental gears finally spun.
    “An ambitious goal, Monica. Mail order’s start-up costs are high. The marketplace for catalogs is already overcrowded, and Internet marketing has not proven itself in the long run.”
    Without a blink she said, “But my product has a strong appeal and is stand-apart enough to occupy a successful preemptive niche in the marketplace.”
    Royce’s hormones seethed. This woman was sharp, maybe too sharp for her own good. Over-confidence, after all, had killed as many new business ventures as under-capitalization. He tilted his chair forward and rested his forearms on his desk, recapturing some of the space he had surrendered to her earlier.
    “And just what is your product?” he asked incredulously.
    She unclasped the portfolio and spread it before him. His reaction was visceral; his groin tightened, the temperature on his face rose to a broil.
    It was a photo of a very well-endowed blonde woman, a haughty cast on her face, mouth pouting. The model was attired in diaphanous red fabric and straps that seemed to both display and enhance every erogenous zone she possessed. Lurid pink fingers silk-screened on the bra cups gave the illusion of uplifting the breasts and tweaking the half-exposed nipples.
    Down below, fingers of a like nature appeared to spread the crotch of the panties, where there was a lewd little slit in the cloth.
    Oh my. Oh dear , he thought. The serpent Sex had reared its ugly head again in his daily affairs.
    Monica giggled. “I suppose I should have given you a warning or something. Frankly, I can’t tell whether you’re blushing or not.”
    He closed the portfolio, electing to ignore her inquiry. “Interesting,” is all he said.
    She went on: “The name of my company is Naughty’s. I specialize in intimate lady’s apparel—fantasy lingerie, I call it. My market is the aware woman, married or single, who believes we should take sex off the billboards and movie screens and put it back where it belongs, in the bedroom, the boudoir. The Naughty’s woman is not an anorexic social x-ray but a lusty female not ashamed of her sexuality, her curves. My fashions are more erotic than Victoria’s Secret, more imaginative than Frederick’s of Hollywood, and more exclusive than Mello Mail. I design everything myself.”
    She glared boldly at him and continued, “Tell me, does the nature of my business preclude a professional relationship with you, Royce? On moral grounds, I mean. If so, I need to know now.”
    His mouth stumbled. “Ah, no, I don’t think so. Business is business, I guess. I mean, no, I don’t think it would