Her head snapped up and she pulled herself out of the self-pitying hole she’d dug. Of all the problems to have, hers was right up there in the obnoxious range. She was pretty and loaded. Yeah. Boo hoo. Besides, rich people got married every day of the week. They got married, had kids…just like real people.
She thought of all the happy rich couples she knew… There had to be at least one happy couple, right? Her bagel came, and she ate the entire thing, plus another cup of coffee, and still she couldn’t think of one blissful union among her peers. The marriages were more like mergers. And it was almost incestuous, because the people in the inner circle always ended up with other people in the inner circle.
The man in the boutique was an outsider. Which was a very good thing. He had no idea who she was, which was another very good thing.
She smiled. Who says he ever had to know who she was? Why couldn’t she be Scheherazade? At least for a night. And maybe, like the woman from the Arabian Nights, she could spin him a tale, enchant him with the magic of a story.
The bottom line was that she wanted to see him again. She didn’t want to know what he did for a living, who his parents were, how terrific his portfolio was. She wanted what she’d had for those few minutes in the shop.
When he’d touched her finger, she’d felt a jolt run through her. A purely sexual rush.
He might not come. In all likelihood, he probably thought she was a wacko.
But then again, he might come.
She bit her lower lip and shifted on the booth. Who knows? They might both come.
2
“WHO’S ON THE BOOKS today, Phyllis?” David asked cheerfully on Tuesday morning. He put his briefcase under his desk, then turned to his secretary. Phyllis had been with him for four years, and she ran his office with great good sense and a necessary sense of humor. And she was the soul of discretion, which was critical with his clientele.
“Mr. Travolta had to postpone for two weeks. He’s flying to California. You’ve got Mr. Broderick at eleven, lunch with your sister at one, and Mr. Warren at three.”
“Great. Give me a half hour, and then let’s do some dictation, okay?”
“Right. Coffee?”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
Phyllis smiled as she walked out of his office, and as soon as she closed the door, he dialed Charley. He had to leave a message, and when he tried Jane, he got the answering machine. Frankly, he was relieved. He had to figure out what to tell them—why he couldn’t make dinner tomorrow night. Not that he wanted to lie, exactly. But he could just see Charley’s face when he told them he was breaking their long-standing engagement to meet a strange woman at a hotel. And that he didn’t even know her name.
Phyllis came back with his coffee, then quietly retreated. The woman was in her fifties, but she appeared much younger. Perhaps it was her red hair, worn loose to her shoulders. Or maybe it was her sense of style. She always looked pulled together, and she was unfailingly serene amid the chaos that went along with having famous patients.
He wasn’t sure even now how he’d ended up with so many celebrity clients. It had started about two and a half years ago with a soap opera actress. She’d recommended a highly acclaimed actor friend, and it had mushroomed from there.
He didn’t mind. It was fascinating to explore the kinds of problems that went along with fame and fortune. The only real problem for him was the paparazzi. They tended to lurk downstairs and question him as he came and went. They bothered Phyllis, too, but not often. She was an expert at chasing them away.
He sipped his coffee, then turned in his chair. His view from the high-rise was spectacular, and he realized that lately, he’d been so busy he hadn’t taken even a few moments to enjoy it.
The park was covered in snow, and it looked like a postcard from Currier & Ives. January was a good month for New York. It made the city appear innocent, which was quite a feat. In March, the magic would be over, when the white gave way to gray, but for now, at this height, it was all magic.
His gaze moved in the direction of the Versailles hotel. He’d never been there, but he’d read about it. It was one of the new boutique hotels, catering mostly to the European trade. Was he really going to meet her there? A complete stranger? What if she was a reporter, and all this was a trick to get some information on a client?
No, that wasn’t possible. No one could have known he’d walk into that store, and she must have been there before he’d arrived.
His hand went to his ear, and he rubbed the lobe where she’d bit him. Talk about leaving a mark. Although there was no sign of her teeth—it had been a gentle nip—the echo of the startling move had stayed with him all night. He closed his eyes, remembering his first impression of the woman.
She was a class act. The shawl wasn’t the only sign. Her makeup was subtle, but perfect. Her skin pampered. The diamonds in her earrings looked like the real McCoy. But more than that, the way she carried herself, her confidence, her audacity, bespoke the kind of rearing and education that came with old money. He’d seen it often enough to recognize the signs.
He had a few patients who were the same type, but he had the feeling none of them were in her league. He wasn’t, either. Not that he was complaining. His practice had flourished, his portfolio had done very well, and he was one of the fortunate who could actually afford to live in Manhattan. To live well, that is.
He realized he was rubbing his ear again, and he tried to catalogue what else he’d noticed about Scheherazade. Ridiculous name, but intriguing, too. Of course he knew the story. The princess Scheherazade had been sentenced to death by a wicked king, but she held the king spellbound with her nightly tales, always stopping before the denouement, so he was compelled to let her live another day.
Is that what his mystery woman was going to do with him? Tell him tales? Keep him in suspense? The idea appealed. He liked the element of surprise. He hadn’t realized what a rut he’d been in until yesterday at that boutique. Sher had shoved him out of his comfort zone. Quite firmly.
Even though his night had been filled with feverish dreams, he felt more alive today than he had in years. Eight o’clock tomorrow night. He couldn’t wait.
SHE WASN’T GOING.
The whole idea was ludicrous.
Besides, he wasn’t going to show.
Susan looked at her reflection in the mirror, although she couldn’t see too much of herself. Not with the mint-green mud mask on. But her eyes were clear, and that’s what she studied. They were the window to the soul, right? So what was her soul trying to tell her? Yes? No?
Dammit. Her eyes weren’t talking. She left the bathroom and climbed onto her bed. The one place on earth she was perfectly at peace.
Yes, she knew she had too many pillows. But she didn’t care. It was her bed, and she could make it any way she pleased.
Her shoulders sagged with the realization that no one cared one whit about her pillows. She’d reacted to a long-ago conversation with a man she couldn’t stand. Larry had hated the pillows. They’d fought. Over and over. Eventually, she’d given in and tossed the pillows. Her gesture hadn’t saved the marriage.
Nothing could have. Not counseling, not acquiescence, not a change in her outlook. The man had wanted to milk her dry. Period. There was no love there. Sadly, there had never been love, at least not from him. Not with Larry or any other man.
She wished she had a Trevor. Lee’s idea a year and a half ago to add sex to their friendship had turned out to be the best move Lee had ever made. Their marriage was a wonder to behold.