Dark Passions Read Free Page A

for a small couch and an armchair (thanks to Artie’s pile of equipment, which took up half their living room).
    Susan sighed.
    Artie made a huffing sound and started tapping his toe.
    â€œSorry to keep you waiting, you must be the Blanchards, you’re gonna love the apartment, let me get my keys.”
    Susan turned toward the rapid voice, imagining a geeky stringbean type with a frayed sweater and maybe a weak attempt at a mustache. She was shocked at what she saw when her eyes focused.
    â€œSorry about that, and my motor mouth,” he said, extending his right hand and smiling. “I’m Mark Anthony, manager and sometime plumber.”
    With his left hand he pushed the elevator call button slowly, almost sensually.
    Susan gulped and smiled, dumbstruck.
    â€œI’m Art, and this is my wife, Susan,” Artie said. The annoyance was still evident in his tone, but he held out his hand.
    She let her eyes rove over Mark’s fine features as they stood, awkwardly waiting.
    Mark Anthony. Yeah, right!
    It was either a stage name or his parents had one hell of a sense of humor. But he did look vaguely like she imagined a Roman centurion might—powerful, healthy of body, and possessed of the most limpid dark eyes she’d seen in a long time. Dark hair cropped close to his scalp and yet seeming to flow, lion-like, over his shoulders. His nose had that Roman look, almost too prominent but then not quite, dominating his face but calling attention instead to the full, cherubic lips below. His smile was brilliant and natural, his eyes lighting with sparkles as he shook their hands, Artie’s first, then hers, lingering a fraction of a second longer after caressing her skin with his.
    Or was she just imagining that?
    Either way, Susan hated letting his hand slip away.
    The doors suddenly slid open with a slight creak, the car having arrived noiselessly.
    The buttons were rounded in the old-fashioned way, three-dimensionally, set in two short parallel rows of three (five floors and the basement, Mark explained). She pushed the top right button and stared at herself in the mirror set just above the panel, noticing that her face was flushed from the heat. At least they wouldn’t freeze in this building! Her blouse was opened almost down to her breasts, but her light leather blazer kept her look businesslike. She smiled at her reflection and let her finger linger on the floor button, feeling it yield beneath her pressure. Her breathing quickened.
    Mounted on the wall of the car, perpendicular to the controls, was a hinged contraption that appeared to be able to swing down. It was perhaps fourteen inches in length, metallic like a lever but encased in opaque rubber.
    Susan felt vaguely unsettled as she examined the lever surreptitiously. When she looked up, she realized that both Artie and Mark were looking at her as if she’d spoken. Or as if she’d flashed her boobs like she had once during Mardi Gras in the pre-flood French Quarter.
    A droplet of sweat down the center of her back tickled until it was absorbed by her blouse.
    She stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips seemed fuller when she pursed them. Colorful patches dotted her high cheekbones. Her eyes flashed. Behind her, reflected in the mirror, the delectable Mark Anthony was talking to Artie, his hands gesturing.
    Susan suddenly wanted one of those hands on her breast. She wanted his fingers to pluck her nipple as if it were a grape on the vine. She raised her hand and caressed the buttons on the board. They were nipples, and she felt them harden under her touch. She placed her other hand on the mysterious lever, encircling it with her slim fingers, feeling it throb as if blood flowed in its veins. It swelled, and she moved her fingers over it teasingly until she thought it would burst. Or she would burst.
    â€œHow are the neighbors?” Artie asked.
    Susan dropped her hands quickly, guiltily, and turned around to face the two