 An
Excerpt from PHI BETA BIMBO
CHAPTER ONE
"Am I a sexpot, or what?"
"Or what."
Leah Smith laughed as she emerged from
the Luscious Lingerie dressing room. "What do you think?" She thrust back
her shoulders for maximum effect, straining the cotton threads of her cherry
red T-shirt. "Are these boobs or are these boobs?"
"I'd be really impressed," her brother
Steve observed dryly, "if more than fifty percent of them were actually
yours."
"Very funny," she said, eyeing his own
40 C's. "Considering yours are one hundred percent fa--"
"Hey, hey, hey, little sister," Steve said
in his Stephanie voice -- which Leah estimated to be about an octave lower
than Bea Arthur's. He crossed his panty-hosed legs, winced slightly, then
uncrossed them quickly and stood instead. "Not in public. You wouldn't
want to ruin my image, now would you?"
Leah rolled her eyes and strutted past
him to the store mirror and stared at herself. "Wow. I'm built."
"Literally."
She scowled, but didn't answer him. The
same green eyes and mouse brown hair stared back at her, but the sight
of her artificially enhanced chest made her look foreign to her own eyes.
"Stephanie's" pumps clicked on the tile
floor as he clanked up to her and took in her image over Leah's shoulder,
"Kinda makes you feel a little wicked, eh?"
"Wicked's not what I'm going for." Well,
not completely, anyway.
"Then you probably don't want them so pointy.
Pointy definitely says wicked."
"What says bimbo?"
"Cleavage. Lots of cleavage."
Leah glanced to her left and saw the store
clerk eyeing them strangely. She could just imagine what the girl was thinking.
"Back off, bro," she whispered over her shoulder. "People will talk."
Steve stepped back and glanced around.
When he spotted the clerk, he gave her his best Stephanie smile. "Would
you be a dear and bring us one of your Pump You Ups?"
Leah was almost positive she didn't want
to know, but she asked anyway, "What in Hades is a Pump You Up?"
"You'll see."
"Sure," the girl said. "Any particular
color?"
"Oh, definitely red," Steve said.
The girl smiled and left.
"Doesn't she need to know what size?" Leah
asked.
"No."
"Dare I ask why not?"
"It's all in the pump, toots."
"The pump," Leah said faintly. "This doesn't
sound good."
"It's painless, I promise."
Leah glanced at her brother, dressed in
his Stephanie drag attire. It always amazed her how he fooled so many people
in the get up. Even with the wig and make-up and Donna Karan numbers, he
still looked like a Steve to her. How no one else had caught on all these
years she couldn't fathom.
"Why are we Stephanie today?" she asked
him.
"Board meeting," he said, scowling as he
took in his appearance in the mirror. "God, I hate this get-up."
"I thought you said it would be over soon."
"Three months, two days and eighteen hours,
but who's counting?"
"How are you going to do it?"
"Stephanie's going to send out a company-wide
memo announcing a mandatory meeting. And then me, as me, will tell them
all that their CEO has decided to seek new horizons, and has named me,
her General Manager will be taking charge."
Leah turned from the mirror. "You hate
this. The company's doing well. Why are you keeping it up?"
"Because I feel obligated to my backer.
He wanted a woman in charge, he got a woman in charge. Once I pay him off,
I'm free."
"I hope no one will fault you for the tiny
deception."
"Tiny?" Steve snorted. "Baby sister, I've
been wearing drag for almost five years now, and I'm mighty sick of it."
Leah truly sympathized. Even though Steve
only had to don panty hose on rare occasions, she knew how much he hated
the ruse. So she quickly changed the subject. "Thanks again for letting
me do my experiment at Just Peachy," Leah said.
He waved. "Anything for my kid sister.
But tell me, why are you doing this again?"
"Pure research." Sort of.
"Doesn't sound very pure to me, brainiac.
Or scientific. Besides, you already turned in your thesis."
"It's not meant to be scientific. It's
more like a case study. The sociologist in me wants to test a theory."
Sort of.
"Testing a theory is going under cover
as a busty bimbo?" He looked pretty skeptical.
Leah shrugged, but didn't respond. If she
were totally honest with her brother, she'd have to admit that part of
her just wanted to see how the other half lived. Being a bookish, lackluster
nerd had begun to grow old after twenty-eight years.
"What's the title of your masterpiece again?"
Steve asked.
"An Ad Hoc Inquiry Into The Contribution
Of Physical Presentation Toward Vocational Advancement Opportunities."
"Uh-huh. Translate that into English, please?"
Leah threw back her shoulders and faced
the mirror once again. "Who gets the job? The busty bimbo or plain Jane
Leah."
"One of these days Gramps and I are convincing
you that you're beautiful just as you are."
"Sure you will." When Hell hosts the Winter
Olympics.
"Thorndike will not hire the bimbo."
"Oh, I can almost guarantee he'll hire
the bimbo."
"What's the bet?" Steve asked, waggling
his Slap-On-Nails. "I hire the best, and they hire the best. Thorndike's
not going to go for the busty bimbo routine."
"I'm betting he will," Leah said, always
ready to kick her brother's butt in any wager. "Name the stakes."
"Hmmm. All the laundry for one month?"
"Not a chance. I'm not washing your pantyhose."
"Like I'd have a good time laundering your
sweats. You don't exactly come home in pristine condition after your morning
torture."
She could argue, but she'd lose. "Okay,
how about this? If I win, you go out on a date with the woman of my choosing."
"A blind date? I don't think so."
"You need to get a life, bro."
"Yeah, and you're just painting the town
red. When was the last time you had a date?"
Leah was pretty sure it had still been
the twentieth century, but enough about her. It was about time for Steve
to find a good woman. He'd been working too hard for too long. Especially
those times when he'd had to work in heels. "I win, I set you up."
"I win, I set you up. In fact, I know just
the guy. He's doing some contract work for me at the office."
Leah hesitated only for a second because
she was fairly darn sure she'd win. She stuck out her hand. "Deal."
While Steve fidgeted with his girdle, Leah
admired her bust in the mirror once more, strangely feeling like it changed
her in some intrinsic way. "This being built thing feels really different."
Steve frowned, looking like he wanted to
argue her decision once again. But then he just shrugged his shoulders
-- way too wide for anyone to believe he was actually a woman, in Leah's
opinion. But he was getting away with it. For years now.
People apparently saw what they wanted
to see. And since Stephanie was supposed to be Steve's twin, people figured
the resemblance made sense. At least that's the only explanation Leah could
figure.
"When do your interviews start?" he asked.
"The busty, blonde bimbo's is Monday morning,
I'm Monday afternoon."
Steve laughed. "Oh, jeez. Gramps is probably
going to have a seizure. It's bad enough that his only grandson dresses
in drag."
"He already knows about the plan," Leah
said. "He's trying to be real twenty-first century about it. Besides,
he knows it's just an experiment."
"He probably heard Oprah--Oh, damn," Steve
said, going stiff.
Leah followed his gaze to spot a gorgeous
brunette entering the store. "Someone you know?"
"Unfortunately. That's the crook, Kate
Bloom."
"Kate Bloom? The president of Apple Blossom
Cosmetics, Kate Bloom?"
"The one and only," Steve said, his voice
coming out in a low growl that would have passers-by wondering what kind
of steroids Stephanie Smith was ingesting.
"Uh-oh." Leah had heard plenty about Kate
Bloom in the last few years. None of it flattering. "The competition."
"And the reason I just spent a fortune
on a state of the art security system. And why I had a setback paying off
the loan. But soon this is all going to be over."
"A fortune on a security system. Why in
the world?"
Another feral growl escaped his frowning lips. "The woman and Apple
Blossom Cosmetics are just one too-small step behind us whenever we introduce
new products."
Leah stared at her brother, who she loved
more than anyone else in the world, save Gramps. "You're not saying...she's
stealing from you?" Indignation burrowed right up from her tummy to her
throat. No one, and she meant no one, messed with the only family she had
left.
"Damn straight," he said. "And I'm going
to prove it, and then Kate Bloom and Apple Blossom are going down hard.
I almost relish the image of her wearing very unflattering stripes."
Steve glanced away and began to pretend
great interest in a bunch of tiger print thongs. But in the mirror, Leah
could watch the woman behind her, and she knew the moment Ms. Bloom spotted
him. The stunning lady hesitated a moment, then came strolling over with
a grim smile on her face. "Well, hello, Stephanie."
With a nasty smile of his own, Steve turned.
"Kate."
"I'd never have pictured you shopping at
this store," the lady said, her blue eyes shooting sparks. "Do they sell
girdles here or something?"
"Taking time off from corporate espionage
to get yourself some more edible underwear?" Steve countered.
"Ma'am," the young clerk said, unaware
she was walking right into a minefield.
With a barely audible groan, Steve turned
to the clerk. "Yes?"
The clerk held up the glowing red item.
"Here's your Pump You Up."
* * *
"Holy shit! Check out this babe!"
Mark Colson, founder and owner of Colson
Complete Security Systems, Inc., glanced up from one of the five computer
monitors in the small but efficient security office. "Hmm?"
"Check this out! This babe is hot."
Mark wasn't real thrilled that Just Peachy's
new chief of security was into such unprofessional observations about employees
and visitors to his company's offices. After all, the man couldn't be effective
if he got sidetracked this easily. Not only that, Mark had recommended
him for the job. But Mark would address that issue in a moment. Right now
he was just a little curious. Bernie Mills had never had an outburst like
this one before in the last few weeks they'd been testing the new security
system.
Mark stood and strolled over to the third
bank of monitors. The second of which, the one Bernie was transfixed to,
was labeled, "Human Resources."
Mark immediately understood why Bernie's
tongue was hanging out. Standing beside Harold Thorndike's massive desk
was Harold himself, and a Marilyn Monroe blonde with beamers out to there,
and visible cleavage that could probably house a B-52.
Wowza! He sucked in a breath and silently
paid homage to Mother Nature.
She was the epitome of the type of women
he was drawn to these days. Unless that killer body also contained a sneaky
mind, high ambitions and a steel heart.
His initial reaction was that she was fairly
tall, but he revised that conclusion when Thorndike waved her into a seat
and she crossed those luscious legs. That's when he noticed the bright
red stilettos that probably added at least four inches to her height. Between
that and the highly teased hair, her height was deceptive. Without them
she probably rang in at around five foot six.
She was slender. Almost too slender for
that chest of hers. She wore a fitted red skirt and jacket. The kind of
jacket that has only one button on it, at her waist. He sure hoped, for
her sake, that the threads on that button were the extra strength variety.
Or maybe not.
The outfit -- suit or not -- was less than
demure. Men would have a hard time keeping their minds on balance sheets
around this woman.
Mark reached down and pressed a couple
of keys, pumping up the volume a few notches. "Go monitor lab two, Bernie."
Bernie made a barely audible smirking sound,
which Mark ignored.
He sat down and worked the keyboard, sending
the signal to the video camera hidden in the office to zoom in on the woman.
He could argue that his FBI training taught him to catalogue her features,
but he wasn't into lying to himself as a rule. Below that teased blond
look, she had a pretty sloped, unlined forehead, brilliant blue eyes and
a pert nose. Her skin was real soft-looking, and her neck was long and
smooth, just the right kind for a man to bury his face in.
While she waited in silence, probably while
Thorndike reviewed her résumé, he watched her fidget just
a little, tugging on the bottom of her suit jacket, her foot jiggling nervously.
That's when he noticed one of the sexiest things about her -- and that
was saying plenty considering the rest of the package -- a delicate gold
bracelet encircling her left ankle.
Not that he'd never heard of ankle bracelets
before, he'd just never seen a woman actually wearing one. Visions of chains
encircling her hands and ankles danced through his head. He was so blown
away into another dimension that it took him a while to realize the interview
had commenced, and he must have missed the opening pleasantries.
"It would seem, Ms. Deveraux, that you've
worked in many, many places."
"Oh, yes, indeed," the woman said in a
breathy voice that would have made Marilyn proud. "In my youth, mostly.
I was trying to find my calling."
Mark snorted. "Couldn't hold down a job,"
he interpreted.
"Waitress. Hatcheck girl. Aerobics instructor..."
There was a pause right then, and Mark could just imagine the same thought
flirting through Thorndike's mind as his own. How in hell could she jump
up and down without her breasts smacking her in the face?
"...Boat expo model--"
"That one came close to being my calling,"
Ms...Devereaux, did he say her name was? chimed in.
"I see," Thorndike said in a voice that
sounded strangely strangled. "Short order cook."
"Too much grease."
"Flower delivery."
"Fun, but not much room for advancement."
"Ms. Devereaux, you do realize that this
job involves a lot of typing and filing."
"Typing? Filing? Is that what administrative
assistants do?"
This is the point where Mark, were he doing
the interviewing, would force her to recite her ABC's.
"And answering the phones."
"I can do that!" she said with a breathy,
triumphant squeal.
"Well, that's good. But the problem I'm
having is that, although your résumé certainly shows you
to have a varied background in the work force, none of these jobs actually
trained you for this position."
"I learn fast!" The woman leaned forward,
probably giving Thorndike an eyeful. "And I really need this job, Mr. Thorndike.
I'd be so grateful if you gave me a chance. You won't regret it."
"Well--" At that moment, Mr. Thorndike's
phone buzzed. He picked it up and spoke softly into the receiver while
blondie squirmed some more in her chair. But Mark was an expert, in his
opinion, of judging people in stressful situations. After interrogating
hundreds of crooks during his years with the FBI, he knew uncomfortable
from guilty in a heartbeat.
This wasn't just a woman squirming because
she'd fitted herself in an outfit that was at least one size too small.
This wasn't a woman who was worried about the impression she was making.
This was a woman who had deception written all over that pretty little
forehead of hers.
His senses began to tingle, and it wasn't
from the face and body that wouldn't quit sitting right in front of his
sights.
Thorndike dropped the phone into its cradle
and stood. "If you'll excuse me a moment, I have a matter to clear up.
It won't take more than a minute."
"Take your time, Sugar."
Mark rolled his eyes. The woman had just
committed suicide. But once Thorndike stopped staring at her as if she'd
beamed down from Mars, he cleared his throat, fidgeted with his tie, then
marched out of the room.
Mark hit a few more buttons, and the camera
zoomed in closer. If he wasn't mistaken, the woman had a bead of sweat
running down her temple. She swiped it away.
At the same time she uncrossed her legs
and kept adjusting the back of her skirt. Or what was underneath it.
Suddenly, she began muttering under her
breath. Too low. He adjusted the volume even more.
"...damn idiot probably couldn't remember
the color of my hair, much less my eyes," she grumbled, scratching at the
moisture at her temple. While she scratched, that blonde hair moved and
he spied a flash of brown underneath, before she shook her head and adjusted
it with a grimace.
The woman was wearing a wig.
She stood up and wiggled around, fussing
with her butt area. "If Steve ever tries to talk me into thongs again,
I'm killing him."
Her voice, he noticed, had lost the breathy
quality. It was now almost gravelly with anger and disgust.
And intelligent sentence structure.
And she was wearing a thong. That information
didn't exactly diverge from the persona she'd taken on, but he filed the
information away just the same, merely because he could think about that
later in greater detail.
"Whoever invented this equipment deserves
to hang in it," she said, then began adjusting her cleavage.
Adjusting her cleavage?
Mark's eyes almost bugged out as her cleavage
actually moved. Not in normal ways, either. Up, down, left, right, she
was itching her way through a mound of what was supposed to be her, and
it wasn't shifting naturally.
"Marilyn Monroe" was so uncomfortable that
she stuck a pen down her jacket while muttering swear words a good girl
probably would never utter. This might not be a good girl, so that was
understandable. Except this girl wasn't actually pronouncing them, she
was spitting them out one letter at a time. And they were pretty complicated
ones, too. Then after the ending of each one, she kept saying, "Sorry,
Gramps, I'll make dinner tonight."
Personally, if Mark got them right, Gramps
-- whoever he was -- wasn't who she should be apologizing to. Unless Gramps
had a really, really strong link. Straight to the Maker.
Mark was fixated by this woman. She wasn't
anything like the bimbo he'd just heard being interviewed. She was not
an idiot not even qualified to deliver newspapers. And even then that woman
would need a roadmap.
But he watched in fascination, anyway,
as she kept digging into her cleavage with a pen, until a sudden "szzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt"
sounded loud through the speakers, and he watched a breast made in heaven
deflate right before his very eyes.
The woman looked distressed. She couldn't
be more disappointed than he was, seeing as a fantasy of his had just burst
louder than that fake contraption that had his imagination running wild.
But still, she appeared almost ready to cry.
He'd feel really sorry for her, but he'd
had it with fakes. There wasn't a chance in hell he'd take a moment to
want to comfort the fake blonde bimbo who looked like she'd just lost her
best friend.
The woman swiped away tears, all the while
scrambling through her purse. She began stuffing her deflated boob with
tissues, mints, anything she could stick in there. She even used her cell
phone to pad herself.
God, he wished he had her phone number.
She looked lumpy as hell when she was done.
And boy, she was done. No way would this woman land the job. But he was
landing her the moment she left the building.
His job was to ferret out the possible
corporate spies Stephanie Smith felt certain were either already working
here, or were trying to infiltrate the company. She was a prime candidate.
A total imbreastinator. Using cleavage to get the job done. How rude. What
man could resist? She'd make the perfect spy.
With that in mind, Mark went out to meet
Just Peachey's very first suspect.
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