Free Menage by Emma Holly Page B

at my admission. She tapped her perfect red nails against the black marble counter, then nodded at me. "Those are lovely, dear. By far the prettiest I've seen.'
    Out of reflex, I looked down at myself. I wore a grey cashmere V-neck and jeans, and no jewellery . I couldn't imagine what she might be complimenting, but she soon enlightened me. 'Your breasts, darlin '. They're nice and full, but they hang perfectly.'
    Her words unnerved me. Besides the fact that they were uttered by a woman, they seemed so familiar.
    Now she tilted her head to one side. Her shiny hair brushed her shoulder. 'Now don't get agitated, dear. I'm not here to pick you up - though, believe me, nothin ' would please me more. No, I'm just here to deliver an invitation from a friend.'
    'A friend named Sean?' I slid her foam-topped coffee across the marble.
    Her laugh tinkled like the proverbial silvery bells. The bearded gentleman at the corner table closed his eyes. 'Precisely,' she said and, with a coyness worthy of a Hollywood screen legend, withdrew a note from her cleavage.
    She pressed the folded slip of paper, now warm and fragrant, into my palm. That's when I noticed the back of her hands were shaved. My eyes flew to hers and she laughed again, a throaty chuckle this time. 'That's right, darlin '. She's a he.'
    Her mission complete, she/he tossed what I now recognised to be a very expensive wig. He wiggled his elegant manicure as he backed away. 'Don't you be late - and have some fun for me, you hear?'
    Boy, I thought, when Sean planned a scene, he really pulled out all the stops. Curious, I unfolded the invitation. I found a
Pine Street
address, a fifteen-minute walk from my shop.
    'Nine o' clock sharp,' ordered his imperious scrawl. 'Be there or be square. P.S. Tonight's safe-word is "Uncle".'
    Apparently, whatever the little devil had planned required safe-words. Trust Sean to choose the one I'd choke before saying. When I was a kid, crying 'Uncle' during a game was the ultimate expression of surrender. But we'd see who'd surrender tonight. I slipped the note into my back pocket and took a fortifying sip of the mocha cappuccino his gender-bending friend had failed to collect.
    Insomnia, be damned. I had a feeling I'd need all the fortification I could get.
    The address occupied the basement level of an attractive brownstone house. Intimate Notions said its discreet, hand-lettered sign.
    The windows were dark and a closed sign hung in the door. Nonetheless, I was sure of my welcome. I descended the four concrete steps and peered through the glass. A small blue light burnt in the back, revealing nothing but shadows. I felt both foolish and excited, which was probably what Sean intended.
    Determined not to quail before I'd crossed the starting line, I jammed my thumb over the buzzer. Before the grating echo faded, an invisible someone opened the door.
    'Come in,’ said the shadow, a diminutive female shadow. She closed the door behind me and pulled a filmy curtain over the glass. 'One moment,’ she said. I heard high-heeled footsteps moving quickly across a carpet, and then a teardrop chandelier filled the room with a soft, sparkling glow.
    Red struck my eyes: lush, venereal red. It lacquered the walls of the octagonal salon. It upholstered the plump, satiny chairs. It swirled across the savage Chinese carpet, and swayed among the rails of multicoloured silk confections that obviously formed the shop's mainstay. Camisoles and teddies hung from ribbon-padded hangers, along with morning gowns and corsets and brassieres of every imaginable style.
    At the centre of the room a headless mannequin stood. She wore a matching bra and panty set with the nipples and crotch cut out. I choked back a laugh. I'd always found that sort of get-up ridiculous, a dirty old man joke; not something a woman would choose for herself.
    Or so I thought.
    'Dear me,’ clucked the woman who'd admitted me. 'I can see I've got my work cut out for me.'
    For the first time I