Promiscuous. R. Moreen Clarke
Deandra worked hard to remain well-connected, and it was one of those connections that came through with an invitation to a private viewing of a hot, new African-American artist at a local gallery. Her Internet research revealed Marshall James was a patron of African-American art. She was banking on James not missing this event.
Friday evening she dressed in a soft silk chiffon navy dress with a halter neckline and full skirt, cinched around the waist with a wide inset of pleated silk charmeuse. Matching leather navy high-heels complemented her understated look, saying sexy, not sluttish. She arrived at the gallery early to ensure she would have time to survey the premises for the best possible “happenstance” meeting. She flirted with several guests in attendance while keeping a sharp eye on the entrance. She knew it would not pay to pin all her hopes on his showing up and she needed a fallback plan.
When Marshall James stepped into the lobby of the Norton Museum of Art with a woman of obvious style and sophistication at his side, Deandra was only mildly surprised. She could not expect that a catch of his magnitude would be without a date, but disposing of the competition had become a hobby of hers. She quickly assessed the woman’s salt-and-pepper hair, which was coiffed to perfection. Simple diamond teardrop earrings bounced softly against her neck. Her flawless makeup brought out the rich tones in her caramel complexion. An elegant black designer dress sheathed her trim and petite figure. She oozed graciousness and class with every movement. Deandra took an immediate dislike to this interloper. However, her resolve to end up with him this evening was not in the least daunted by this development. She would have to choose her moment of introduction very carefully. Immersed in her plans for the evening, she did not hear anyone approach until a voice whispered in her ear.
“Careful, dear, your fangs are showing,” he said, and handed her a glass of red wine.
Deandra turned quickly and smiled slyly at the familiar face of Oliver Benson. They had been friends for several years and he was well versed in her predatory nature. She wasn’t in the least offended by his comment and laughed deliciously.
“It can’t be that obvious. I must be losing my touch,” she replied wickedly.
“Obvious only to me, darling. Is he on the menu tonight?” he asked, tipping his wineglass slightly in Marshall’s direction.
“Yes, I’m quite ravenous and he does look much better in person than in the photos I’ve seen of him,” she replied as she watched Marshall James from across the room.
Marshall was wearing a three-button black suit, complemented by a gray shirt with crisp white collar and French cuffs. Diamond and onyx cuff links matched the gold, diamond, and onyx ring on his ring finger. He was clean-shaven, with the exception of a neatly trimmed mustache. His attire screamed money and his demeanor projected class.
“He looks positively edible,” Deandra purred as she took a sip from her glass. “By the way, not that it matters, but who’s the old broad glued to his side?” she queried.
“Ah, that would be Viola. She’s looking elegant as usual this evening. Classy lady, and just to let you know, she will be quite a formidable opponent.”
“Really,” Deandra replied incredulously. She reassessed the woman who had now drifted away from Marshall’s side and was engaged in her own conversation with a few of the socialites in attendance. “I can’t imagine…” she mused.
“Viola James is no joke. Many beautiful women have not survived Viola’s inspection or gained her approval,” he advised.
“Approval? Viola James?” she pondered aloud as the name tried to register in her brain.
“She’s his mother, darling, and she can smell a gold digger a mile away. Be careful,” he cautioned, and wandered off.
Deandra’s gaze narrowed reflectively as she contemplated the best way to get Marshall away from his mother’s clutches and into her bed before the night was over.
Two hours into the evening Deandra had yet to wangle an opportunity to meet Marshall. Each time she managed to get within shouting distance, he was pulled away in another direction. Time was winding down and her feet were beginning to ache. She took a moment to slip into the corridor near the rear entrance and massage her aching feet. She leaned on the wall and slipped off one of her sandals. Balanced on her left foot, she massaged the ball of her right foot with her free hand and held on to her shoe with the other. Unexpectedly, a door opened behind her and bumped her just enough to unbalance her and send her careening face-first into the opposite wall. Flailing helplessly, she tried to prevent her body from crashing into the wall. Suddenly her arm was grabbed from behind and she was snatched from near disaster and landed smack in the arms of Marshall James.
At once angry and relieved, she started to let out a stream of expletives until she realized upon whose solid chest she was resting. Any and all sharp retorts were suddenly swallowed.
“Are you all right?” he asked as he eased her away and allowed her to lean on his arm as she put her shoe back on.
“I’m fine. Thanks to you. I didn’t realize I was standing in front of a door until it opened.” She smiled and inhaled a deep breath of the most delicious cologne. Tingling sensations started inside her thighs. This is going to be so good, she thought.
He extended his hand to her. “I’m Marshall, and you are?” he asked. Her obvious beauty was not lost on him.
“Deandra Morgan, pleased to meet you,” she replied easily, and slipped her hand into his. His palm was soft and his handshake firm. Her hand lingered in his a moment more and then she casually looked away. “Are you familiar with the artist?” she asked.
“Actually, not really. I saw the painting sample included in the invitation and my curiosity was piqued, you might say,” he replied. The understated dress did not fool him. This woman radiated sex appeal no matter how hard she tried to mask it. He’d seen her watching him from afar most of the evening and wondered when she would make her move.
“Mine, too, peaked, I mean,” she replied, and looked directly into his eyes. There was no mistaking the double entendre of her words, or the naked desire in her eyes. A fierce throbbing was starting and she could feel her body growing moist in anticipation.
Marshall took in the appealing package in front of him, from her healthy olive-toned skin to her long and sexy legs, which did not seem to stop. The deep V-neck of the halter top dress displayed just enough cleavage to be enticing and let the viewer know her soft, full breasts were homegrown—not factory made. The excitement of the moment was causing her nipples to strain firm and rigid against the thin chiffon of her dress. Marshall, too, felt the thrill of anticipation in his loins. In his mind’s eye he was already deep between her thighs and hard at work.
Reluctantly he reminded himself Viola was here, and it was unlikely he was getting out of here without taking her home first. The two-minute silent conversation took place without either of them saying a word. It was instantly clear to Deandra when his mind drifted back to the present and his mother in the other room.
“I’ll be leaving soon,” she remarked, although it sounded more like a suggestion, and then slipped him a gallery card with her cell phone number written on the back. She glided away without a backward glance and mingled effortlessly into the crowd. She had accomplished what she needed for the moment. The meeting had been most important. Now she would wait for him to make the next move.
He smiled as he saw the number on the back and then slipped it inside his jacket pocket. It was time to find Viola and make his exit. There was a change of plans in the evening’s agenda.
As Marshall walked his mother to her door, his mind was on Deandra and he planned to give her a call as soon as Viola was safely inside for the night. He opened the front door and made a cursory check of the house from front to back before returning to the foyer, where Viola was hanging her wrap in the hall closet.
Viola had kept a close watch on her son all evening. Her internal antennae were alert for any unsuitable women. She loved her son, but felt he was somewhat