Читать книгу You Call This Romance!?: You Call This Romance!? / Are You For Real - Barbara Daly, Barbara Daly - Страница 11

THERE IT WAS. He’d made his decision, sitting across from the cutest little woman he’d ever met, looking into her gray eyes and realizing it was time to fish or cut bait.

Maybe he wasn’t so much cutting bait as cutting off the light of sudden attraction he’d seen and recognized in those eyes, and responded to in a big way. Cute little persons weren’t on his agenda right now. Little stars who deserved to be big stars were. When he had a stable of successful clients, he’d be free to look for the kind of woman he’d like to spend the rest of his life with, the kind of woman…

The kind of woman who’d lose that light of sudden attraction the second she heard he was already spoken for. That’s what Faith Sumner had done. The dreamy quality of her gaze was gone, replaced by a look as severely professional as he guessed a butterfly like Faith could manage.

FAITH DIDN’T REALIZE she’d been daydreaming about honeymooning herself with Cabot Drennan until he hit her with the news that he was the lucky man who was marrying Tippy Temple. That ended the never-fully-realized daydream.

However gorgeous he was, however beautifully he personified the man she would someday love and be cherished by, she had to give up this particular man forever. Even in her dreams. She could never deprive someone as lovely as Tippy Temple of the man of her dreams.

Or the honeymoon of her dreams.

So she relinquished her own happiness. Her heartbreak would be brief, since her daydream hadn’t lasted long. She faced Cabot Drennan squarely and said, “Tippy is not going to want to honeymoon in Reno. She’ll want to go to the most romantic place in the world. Paris. Venice off-season, or a private villa on the coast of—”

“My cell phone won’t work in Europe.”

Faith gazed at him for a long, long moment. “An isolated lodge in the Rockies?”

“No.”

She leaned toward him a bit. “A tiny bed-and-breakfast in Vermont?”

“No.”

“In Napa Valley?”

“No.”

Her voice hardened. “A private car on a coast-to-coast train.”

“No.”

“Williamsburg, Virginia? You can live out your fantasies in Colonial costume.”

He gave her a look of scorn. “No.”

“Rent San Simeon—you know, the Hearst estate about halfway up the coast? It’s a national park, but I think you can rent the bungalows.”

He showed his first flicker of interest. “Hmm. Phone, electricity. We could bring in the hairdressers and manicurists and all the other paraphernalia. Rent another bungalow for the crew. Yeah. Find out how much it costs.”

Feeling hopeful, Faith spun to her computer. Charity had been one of those kids who taught the rest of the family how to use their first computer. Thanks to her coaching—bullying was more like it—Faith was fairly computer-literate. In a few minutes she had her answer.

“No,” Cabot said when he heard the price.

Thoroughly frustrated, Faith collapsed back against her chair. “All right, I’ll get to work on accommodations in Reno, but please do this one thing for me?”

His expression said he’d done all he could just by sitting there listening to her ridiculous suggestions.

“Talk to Tippy about this first.” Faith was sure the angelic Tippy would have a fit, an angelic fit, of course, about going to Reno, and Cabot would be back, humble and subdued, to take a look at that little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont or the isolated lodge in the Rockies.

“Of course. Then we’re through for now?”

Unfortunately. “Yes.”

“You’ll get right to work on it. You won’t wait for Tippy’s answer.”

“No,” Faith lied. Of course she would. And while she waited, she’d finish up the Muldens’ arrangements.

“I’ll call you early tomorrow morning.”

“How early?” Again the look on his face stopped her. Wordlessly she handed him her business card, which listed her office number, home number, cell phone number, pager number and e-mail address. She was grateful Wycoff printed cards for its agents. She’d never be able to memorize all those numbers.

He took the card, got up and started for the door. Faith watched his every movement, the stride of his long legs, the roll of his broad shoulders, the way his hand wrenched at the door handle. She got up to follow his progress across the street, where he swung smoothly into some sort of small, gleaming silver sports car. He looked terrific in sunglasses.

She stood at the window for a long, long moment, unable to keep herself from resuming her daydream of that tall, dark, domineering man turning into so much custard in her hands. Melting under her touch, while she slyly hid the fact that she was melting too, turning into a river of—

“Faith…” It was Mr. Wycoff right behind her, issuing a warning.

“Yes, sir,” Faith said, whirling, “the Muldens. By five.”

She’d just reached her desk when the telephone rang. She heard the scratchy static, the fade-in, fade-out sounds of a car phone. “You forgot to ask me when,” the voice said.

“Cabot?” She knew it was Cabot because the bottom sort of dropped out of her stomach, and she could feel the flush climbing her cheeks, prickling up into her scalp.

“How can you make reservations when you don’t know when the honeymoon is?”

“Well, of course there are the preliminary steps, the general approach, the data-gathering—what are the best hotels and so on and so on.” She was gesturing a lot, she noticed, which wasn’t going to help make her point over the phone.

“Bull. You forgot to ask. We’re getting married on the Fourth of July. Independence Day. You see the irony.”

“Yes,” Faith said faintly.

“And there’s also the fireworks connection. Ought to make good copy.” His voice picked up speed. “Less than six months between now and then. I’ve got a lot to do and I have to know where I’m doing it. So get going.”

He hung up. Faith sat still for a moment, feeling stunned. Good copy? Electricity? Lighting? Were these things a man should be thinking about when he was marrying a lovely, sweet-as-she-was-pretty starlet like Tippy Temple? The one thing Faith knew was that Cabot Drennan was in for a hot honeymoon. But that would make good copy, too.

Focus, Faith. Focus, Faith, Focus…

“Okay, okay,” she muttered to the screen saver, and with considerable effort, turned her mind toward scuba-diving gear for the Muldens.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Cabot was back at the house Tippy had rented in the chic Bel Air district, sitting beside her at the pool. At high noon on a perfect Southern California January day, she was turning Nordic-golden before his very eyes while he sweated in his three-piece suit.

“Reno! Awesome! I feel better already,” Tippy said, popping her chewing gum at him. “Get us one of those honeymoon suites with a round bed, okay? And a Jacuzzi. I’ll look great in a Jacuzzi.”

Tippy kept her weight down to nothing by smoking and kept her cigarette count down by chewing bubblegum in between cigarettes. Just now one of her all-time biggest and best bubbles practically obscured her slim, lovely face. Cabot steeled himself for the eventual…

Pop! “The arrangements are underway,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Gr-r-eat,” Tippy said. Her lower lip began to tremble. “An’ I really appreciate you bein’ willin’ to marry me, after that…that…” Tears welled up.

“Don’t cry, Tippy,” Cabot said, thinking, Don’t start up with the swearing! “It’s my pleasure. I mean, what’s a publicist for?”

One huge droplet slid down her flawless skin as she gazed at him earnestly. “This is going to work for me, isn’t it, Cabot? The publicity? Just a little publicity is all I need, right?”

“Jack and I are sure of it,” he told her, feeling more kindly toward her. Her agent, Jack Langley, had hired him to promote her to the top ranks and Cabot was determined to do it. She deserved a break, this kid from Brooklyn with no connections. So did he, for that matter, a kid from Hollywood with no connections beyond the ones he’d worked his butt off for. And he wasn’t going to let his conscience get in a twist about this thing he’d agreed to do. Whatever Tippy’s private faults, she was, damn it, a good actress.

He felt a smile curving his lips. Good enough to fool that travel agent, Faith Sumner. He’d spotted her from the front door of the agency and had known at once she was the right agent for the job. With her head obviously full of dreams, she’d never figure out that this marriage was made in a publicist’s office, not heaven.

She was a pretty little thing. He kept thinking of her as being little. She was about five-five, he’d guess, but with all that curly blond hair floating around her face—hair a lot like Tippy’s, actually—and the fluttery way she had about her, she seemed smaller than her size and could easily pass for eighteen.

Her gray eyes were like dark pearls.

Back on track, Drennan. “Tippy,” he said gravely, “you do understand we have to keep this quiet.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.”

He hoped she said “I do” and not “Shoo-uh” when they made their vows. “We can’t let anybody figure out this is just a publicity stunt.”

“I unnerstan’ poifectly, Cabot.” Tippy switched from gum to tobacco. “We’re in love and we’re gonna get married.”

Right. Here he was, getting married to a woman he felt sort of protective toward and that was it. And he was doing it entirely to get her name, and his, in the papers. And he figured if the marriage didn’t do the trick, the not-so-discreet divorce would.

He fanned the smoke away from his face. “I went to a low-key travel agency in Westwood,” he explained. “They’ll be less likely to figure it out than one of the agencies around here, and even if they figure it out, less likely to talk.”

She turned huge blue eyes on him. No longer wet, now they were calculating. “Low-key? Are you sure they can do it up classy-like?”

“I’ll see to it that they do.”

“Maybe we ought to do a dry run.”

“A what?”

“You know. Rehearse the honeymoon. Go see what this low-key agency set up for us. Take the crew along. Finalize a script for the video. Work on the lighting. Try out the bed. Find me a psychiatrist. See if there’s a good pastrami sandwich anywhere. Check out the Chinese restaurants.” She stubbed out her cigarette and reached for a fresh pack of bubblegum.

He was startled, as always when Tippy’s hard-headed practicality showed itself. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “It’ll be expensive,” he warned her, knowing she was rapidly spending the money she’d made from the film Faith had rhapsodized about.

“It’ll pay off.” She blew a huge bubble.

It had better. On the way to the car, Cabot fiddled with his cell phone, got out Faith’s card, started to punch in her office number, then decided not to call her yet. It could wait until morning.

A dry run. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“RENO’S PREMIER HONEYMOON HOTEL. Six spectacular honeymoon suites, featuring water beds, his-and-hers baths with Jacuzzis, his-and-hers dressing rooms…”

Why not his-and-hers beds? Snuggled into her own bed, which was much cozier than a water-filled bed sounded, Faith gazed at the laptop monitor that showed a lurid suite reminiscent of one you’d see in the movies of the fifties. The white-carpeted room was huge. At least, it had been photographed from an angle to make it look huge.

The heart-shaped bed, swathed in pink satin, was the central feature, naturally.

She cuddled a little more deeply into her mound of pillows as the ache of frustrated desire began its climb through her center. She could envision Cabot Drennan, dressed in a paisley silk dressing gown and nothing else, turning down that bed and tossing her, dressed in Passion perfume and nothing else, onto it. Resolutely she substituted a fuzzy image of Tippy Temple for the clear image of herself. If she couldn’t allow herself even the briefest, most fleeting thought of sharing that bed with Cabot, at least she was giving him up to a woman who deserved him.

Still, it was disappointing to meet the man of her dreams on the eve, so to speak, of his marriage to another woman.

“…magnificent Olympic pool, saunas, dramatic casino, big-name entertainment, twenty-four-hour room service.”

She sighed deeply. Honeymooners would like that—room service at any time of the day or night.

“…European-trained hairstylists and manicurists on the premises, full range of business services…”

This perked her up a little. Cabot would like that, too. He’d need a break from Tippy now and then, surely. While she had her hair and nails done, he could catch up with life at his office. Maybe even call his travel agent to tell her—

—that he’d made a terrible mistake! That he wished he could take it back! Annul the marriage! Come back to Los Angeles to the woman he really…

Yes, this hotel, the Inn of Dreams located right in the heart of downtown Reno, seemed to be exactly what he was looking for.

An e-mail alert popped up in the corner of the screen. Faith opened it. “Hold off on the July reservations until we talk. I’m coming in to your office when it opens. C. Drennan.”

Her heart beat a rat-a-tat. Could it be? Were her dreams about to come true?

She leaped out of bed, whirled back to save the data she’d gathered on a diskette to take with her to the office and then darted toward the shower. She had exactly thirty-nine minutes to make herself presentable and beat Cabot to the agency. It was going to be a stretch.

CABOT PACED UP AND DOWN in front of Wycoff’s Worldwide wondering why no one was there at two-and-a-half minutes before nine. How could you start working at nine if you didn’t get there well beforehand, have your coffee, go through your In box, be ahead of the game before the day actually began? He’d e-mailed his agent that he’d be there at opening time. He’d expected her to be waiting at the door.

He’d wanted her to be waiting at the door.

What was he doing here anyway? Now that he’d seen who he was working with, now that he’d decided to trust her, why hadn’t he just relied on the telephone. He did everything else on the telephone. Well, almost everything else. At this stage in his life, he didn’t do much that couldn’t be done on the telephone. But it was too late now. He’d said he’d be here and he was here, and where the hell was she?

Exactly at nine, it all happened in a perfectly synchronized fashion. A portly man came to the door and unlocked it at the same time two women and two other men materialized on the sidewalk. Neither of the women was Faith. The group outside forged to the inside, carrying Cabot along with them as they said good-morning to each other and the portly man, then the Wycoff group paused expectantly, waiting.

A minute later Cabot found out what they were waiting for. He heard the squeal of worn tires, the roar of a car engine that needed a new muffler, the grinding of brakes that needed new linings. And in another moment Faith flew through the door, her hair surrounding her face like a golden cloud, her eyes as wild as pearl-gray eyes could get and her silky gray pantsuit in need of a pressing.

A ray of sun shot through the window and straight through her hair, and for a second, Cabot was blinded. He stared at the apparition, trying to still the pounding of his heart.

He strongly felt that he ought to fall to his knees and repent for something or other, and he’d gotten so hard so fast that he actually had something specific to repent.

But the cloud of fire and mist that was Faith Sumner rushed toward him, smoothing her suit with one hand and her hair with another, and gradually reality seeped back.

“Oh, Cabot, sorry you had to wait. Mr. Wycoff—” she turned to the portly man “—sorry to be late. I…”

“Don’t waste time apologizing,” Cabot interrupted her. He gestured toward her desk. “My plans have changed and I have exactly seventeen minutes to explain the situation.”

He observed with satisfaction that the other travel agents immediately began slinking toward their work stations. Wycoff opened his mouth, then closed it and went through a doorway into what was undoubtedly his office, a private one where he would be protected from the hustle and bustle of the actual work.

Faith simply sat down at her desk and gazed at him with a peculiar light in her eyes. So he sat down, too.

“When did you get here?” she asked testily.

“Eight fifty-seven.”

“Were they already here?” She gestured around the room at the other agents.

“No, they all sort of appeared at once just as that guy unlocked the door.”

“How do they do it?” Her expression pleaded with him to understand. “How do they get here exactly at nine, not a minute early, not a minute late? I swear some alien power beams them to the front door.”

“You were only one minute late.” He didn’t know where his forgiving attitude had come from. He supposed it was coming straight from his groin, which still hadn’t stopped acting hopeful.

“When I’m one minute late they’re all standing in the center of the waiting area staring at me when I come in.” Her shoulders drooped.

She was wearing mascara, but only on one set of blond lashes, and her lipstick, something pale pink and shiny, was crooked. He was fascinated, but he couldn’t let on.

“I don’t care,” he said gruffly. “Here’s my problem.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “your problem.” She whirled and reached down to her computer. After she’d pushed several wrong buttons, she finally got the right one and the monitor began to show signs of life. Next she reached into her handbag, fished around, began hauling things out—a wrench, a sandwich, a paper-clipped bundle of coupons, a tube of stain remover, a romance novel—and eventually pulled out a diskette in an ordinary white envelope. “Got it,” she said, waving it at him before she tried to jam it into the CD slot, then into the Zip drive slot and at last, with only the one alternative remaining, slid it smoothly into the A drive.

He waited, tapping one finger on the arm of his chair, trying not to notice the tilt of her perfect little nose, her pale, creamy skin, her small, slender hands as they wreaked their havoc.

She turned back to him, looking triumphant. “Now,” she said. “You mentioned a change of plans.”

“Yes. Don’t make the July reservations yet.”

“No? Are you sure?” Her voice softened. So did her face.

“Yes. Make them for the second weekend in February.”

Inexplicably, her face fell. “Of course. Certainly. If I can get reservations. You’re, ah, moving the wedding back? Oh,” she sighed as a calendar mysteriously appeared on the monitor, “that’s the weekend before Valentine’s Day! Instead of skyrockets, you’re going for hearts and fl—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “I’m doing a dry run.”

“A dry run. Of your honeymoon.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

Faith could think of about a million things wrong with that. She considered listing them. Then she considered the new muffler she needed and the funny way her car sounded when she put on the brakes. Her final consideration was the most important. This was her thirteenth job since she’d finished undergraduate school with a degree in languages and no skills beyond French, Spanish and Italian. She had to make this one last.

“Of course not,” she said smoothly.

“Okay. So book me a honeymoon suite for the nights of the eighth through the tenth.”

She hesitated. “It may not be easy so close to Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t anticipate trouble.” That impatient growl again.

Something about his voice sent her whirling to the screen. “The hotel I’ve chosen…” she began.

“Just make the reservation.”

Silently, feeling oddly sulky, Faith punched at the keyboard, moved the mouse around on a mousepad that had the word Focus! printed on it in capital letters. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but they’re fully booked for…Oops!” Startled, she drew back. “Somebody just broke up.” A slot, in fact a deluxe theme suite, had opened up before her very eyes. “Our most popular theme room,” they described it on the Web site. She cast a sideways glance at Cabot, feeling he’d somehow done it himself, broken up a couple who had a reservation in his hotel for his room.

“So grab it!” He was half out of his chair, reaching for the mouse.

She grabbed it.

He heaved such a sigh she was sure he was wondering what error in his otherwise impeccable judgment had led him to walk up to her workstation yesterday when all around them automatons were chatting with contented-looking clients while quietly doing everything perfectly, serene, unharried smiles painted on their faces.

With the room safely booked, she asked him, “Shall I reserve a wedding chapel in Reno?”

“No.” He growled the word. “I don’t intend to be married by Elvis.”

“That’s more of a Las Vegas thing,” Faith explained.

“The answer’s still no. The ceremony will be here and we’ll fly to Reno. I’ll need two limos from the Little Chapel in the Pines to LAX and two waiting at the Reno-Tahoe airport.”

“One for each of you?” It came out like a squeak.

Another sigh. “No, one for the crew.”

“Oh, yes, the crew.” It wasn’t her place to tell Cabot Drennan she thought his honeymoon plans sounded less than romantic. She went to the Web site of her favorite limousine service, the one with plenty of long, long, white, white cars, which they decorated with flowers when they carried a wedding party.

She frowned. Flowers that would freeze if they had to drive over any mountain passes between the airport and Reno. Maybe they used fake in February. Maybe they used fake all the time. How would she know? She’d never ridden in one.

“What are you thinking about besides my limos?”

She turned to confront his accusing glare. “Fake flowers,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Good idea,” he said. “Tell the limo service I want them to cover the lead car in fake flowers.”

“No problem.” They’d love it.

“Then look up the restaurants in the area and choose five of them.”

“Five?” She couldn’t help herself.

“Two lunches, three dinners. And limos to take us. No flowers.”

“Oh.” She turned to him, wondering if she was doing the right thing. “The hotel features twenty-four-hour room service.”

“That’s very interesting information. Now book the five restaurants.”

“Won’t you at least want breakfast in bed?” She was feeling sorrier for Tippy Temple’s raging hormones by the minute. She knew Tippy Temple’s hormones had to be raging at the prospect of being Cabot’s bride, because her own hormones were raging just sitting across from him watching him glower at her.

“Okay. Breakfast in the room. After the hairdresser and manicurist leave. Book one of each every morning at seven.”

A night with Cabot Drennan could certainly mess a woman up. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine a night with Cabot Drennan would end at seven in the morning.

“Coming right up. How about a massage?”

“Too time-consuming. And I wouldn’t want to film it.”

“It might relax both of you.”

“We’re already relaxed,” he said tightly. “No massage.”

She sighed. “I’ll get to work on the restaurants.”

“Nothing exotic. Tippy’s a salad girl. Meat, potatoes, salad, good wine list. And a bar,” he added, sounding glum about the prospect even as he specified it. “We need a smoking section.”

“Tippy smokes?” An uneasy feeling slid through her body. She remembered reading something about…When Cabot hesitated, she moved the mouse around and found what she was looking for. Her uneasiness intensified.

“No,” he said finally. “I might want an occasional cigar. Or somebody in the film industry might join us for dinner. You know. Just covering all the bases.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” She expelled a sigh of pure relief. “Because the Inn of Dreams advertises itself as Reno’s only no-smoking hotel. I was worried to death there for a minute.”

“Stop worrying,” Cabot said, his brows drawn together in what Faith would describe as a worried frown. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” He got up.

She really hated to see him leave. She really hated thinking she could get all this together by tomorrow. It would take more focusing than she thought she could manage, especially with the elusive scent of his aftershave lingering around her workstation, the daydreams already appearing on the margins of her mind. Daydreams of her sharing this strange, much-too-organized honeymoon and throwing it at once into spontaneous, passionate chaos.

“O-kay,” she said, feeling warm and dreamy.

His frown deepened. “You’ve got a funny look in your eyes.”

“What kind of look?” She locked away the daydreams.

“Never mind. It’s gone.” And so was he. She didn’t even let her gaze follow him to the door. She didn’t have to. She’d already memorized every nuance of his body.