Читать книгу Scent of a Woman - Jo Leigh - Страница 8

SHE KNEW BETTER THAN THIS. Buying new shoes was only a temporary fix. It would lift her spirits for what, an hour? Two? Then she’d be right back in the doldrums.

Susan Carrington shifted her gaze from the display window and forced herself to walk away. She was stronger than shoes, right? Even if they were Jimmy Choos. On sale. And those pink stilettos would be killer with her Dolce & Gabbana duchess satin jacket.

No. She had enough shoes.

The thought made her smile. As if there were ever enough shoes. However, despite the joy they brought, the agony they caused her feet, the jealous looks from complete strangers, shoes could only do so much. They couldn’t stop her from wishing things were different. That somewhere out there, and by out there, she meant Manhattan, not the entire planet, there existed her perfect man. Her soul mate. And if she couldn’t find her soul mate, then she’d settle for someone hot, hard and gifted.

It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, and her body wasn’t thrilled about it. She’d felt restless all week. And not just a little reckless. She wanted…something. Lust, danger, excitement. Shoes simply wouldn’t fit the bill. She wanted a man. A nice, juicy, strong guy. Someone with a brain. Someone who knew how to turn her on like a light switch. And wouldn’t it be something if her dangerous guy was also her soul mate? Not likely. But she could dream, right?

As she headed down 5th Avenue, she let her imagination go full tilt. She could almost picture him. The unmet stranger. The gaze across a crowded room. He would be tall. At least six-one to go with her five-nine. Dark. Not that blond men were inherently not as cute, but she liked the contrast. A pair of blonds was too Barbie and Ken for her taste.

He’d be handsome, but not pretty. Rugged, but with a smile that changed everything. He’d have expressive eyes, large hands. Large feet. And even though she knew size didn’t matter, etcetera, etcetera, he’d have himself an impressive package. Why not? He was her dream man, after all, so she could decorate him however she wanted.

She crossed the street, as always amazed at the pedestrian traffic. It was Monday, the holidays were over, thank God, yet the bustle at one-fifteen in the afternoon was almost as bad as rush hour.

Not that she minded. She loved the rhythm of Manhattan. The pulse of the city. Nowhere on earth was more alive, and even when the curb snow was mostly gray and slushy, and the cabbies laid on their horns as if it would accomplish something, she was at home here.

A bookstore display window slowed her pace to a crawl. She eyed the newest bestsellers, frowning when nothing struck her fancy. Which meant she had to go inside. She tried to remember the last time she’d passed a bookstore and hadn’t gone in. No good. She always went in.

The music stopped her just inside the door. Wait, wait. She knew it. Closing her eyes, she listened to the symphony, the name of the work teasing her. “Scheherazade,” she said aloud, inordinately pleased with herself. She’d always liked the music by… Rimsky-Korsakov. That’s right. Ha. Pity one of the gang wasn’t with her. She doubted anyone but Peter would have known the piece, let alone the composer.

She opened her eyes again and caught a young man staring. His face reddened and he looked away. Susan brushed the moment aside like so much lint. It had happened before. And before and before. That stare, that slack-jawed ogle. It had, once upon a time, felt wonderful. But after a time, it became clear that the stares weren’t about her so much as about her parts. Her hair, or her height, or her boobs, or her features. None of which she could take much credit for. She’d gotten lucky in the genetics lottery, but dammit, she wasn’t just her looks. At least, she didn’t want to be.

She headed down the aisle, wondering if she could bypass the self-help books altogether. She wanted fiction, not transformation. Definitely not soul-searching. Fiction. Make-believe. Stories.

The music swelled, and her thoughts turned to Scheherazade. The woman who’d saved her own life by spinning tales of 1,001 Nights. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Sinbad the Sailor. Aladdin and his magic lamp.

She knew exactly what she’d ask of a genie. Not three wishes, just one. Love. The real thing. The forever kind.

Sadly, it would take a magic lamp to grant her that wish. She and love were on pretty shaky ground. Her one real shot at it had ended abysmally when she’d discovered the man she’d given her heart and soul to hadn’t been interested in her at all. Just her parts. And her money. Mostly, her money.

Sighing, she looked at a few books, but gave that up when she couldn’t focus. This was bad. Normally, she wasn’t such a goose, but dammit, seeing Katy and Lee at breakfast had made her think. They’d bitched about how awful they felt, how they wished the time would come already, how being almost nine months pregnant was anything but a picnic. Susan had laughed and made sympathetic noises, but jealousy swirled inside her, making her food taste like cardboard and her guilt swell with every breath.

She loved Katy and Lee, and their husbands Ben and Trevor. Along with Peter, they were her closest friends in the world. Her family. They’d all met in college, and had never lost touch. The six of them were still thick as thieves, and they’d gone through all the trials and tribulations of work, love and heartbreak together.

But after the other two women had become pregnant, she’d felt distanced. She’d done her best not to show it, but they knew. She was the odd man out, the third wheel. And she hated it.

She wanted a baby growing inside her. She wanted a husband who loved her for her. Instead of buying books, she should be shopping for magic lamps. And praying for a genie. Given her luck with men, her penchant for finding money-hungry jerks, magic was about her only hope.

DR. DAVID LEVINSON STARED at the array of shawls and scarves on the shelves in front of him. He should have thought this through before heading into the small boutique. He knew nothing about women’s clothing. His secretary had sworn he’d earn major bonus points by giving his sister a scarf for her birthday, but perhaps a few CDs or DVDs would be just as good.

He walked further into the shop, and lifted a silky scarf, unfolding it to reveal the intricate pattern. Too fussy for Karen. He checked the price tag and quickly folded the garment, putting it back. Eight hundred dollars? For a scarf? Jeez. He’d had no idea.

Not that his little sister wasn’t worth the money, but man, eight hundred bucks? He went to another display. Pashmina. He’d never even heard of it. The shawls were woven, and looked incredibly soft. On the counter next to them was a similar display of cashmere shawls. There didn’t seem to be much of a difference. Only the pashmina shawls were a lot more expensive.

“Close your eyes.”

David started at the voice, very close, behind his right shoulder. He began to turn, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“Go on. Close your eyes.”

The voice sounded as silky as the cashmere. As sensual as silk. But close his eyes?

“It’s all right,” she whispered again, this time so close he felt warm breath on the back of his neck.

He obeyed, and the idea that he obeyed without knowing who she was, or what she intended, was as much of a rush as the scent of the woman behind him. He felt her move, and it was all he could do not to peek. She was tall, that much he knew because her breath—

Something brushed his cheek and he jumped, but again, her hand on his shoulder made him still.

“Don’t think. Don’t analyze. Just let yourself feel,” she whispered.

The material caressed the side of his face, delicate, soft, lush, like the skin on the inside of a woman’s thigh. Then it was gone, and just as he was about to complain something slightly different brushed his right cheek. Cooler. Slightly thicker. A more earthy scent.

As the cloth slid across his face, he became aware of the effect this exercise was having in a completely different part of his body. He was aroused. Nothing life threatening. Not yet. But between the feel of the cashmere and the mystery of the woman, he was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

The material was withdrawn. He hesitated, waiting to see if there was more.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Again, he obeyed. She was directly in front of him, smiling coyly with perfect lips. He’d been correct, she was tall. But his imagination hadn’t been up to the task of picturing the rest of her.

Pale blond hair in a graceful tangle, held by a tortoiseshell clip. Wide blue eyes under arched brows. Stunning.

“Which did you like better?”

He blinked.

“The right cheek or the left?”

“Oh.”

Her smile broadened, revealing even white teeth.

“The left,” he said.

“That’s pashmina. The wool is from Nepal, taken from the Himalayan goat. Finer than cashmere. This one,” she held up a black shawl, “is an eighty-twenty blend.”

“Okay.”

Her laughter made his predicament worsen. He shifted a bit, but that didn’t help. His slacks were getting tighter by the second.

Her gaze darted to his left hand, then back up to his face. “For your wife?”

“Sister.”

“How thoughtful.”

“She’s a good kid.”

The woman nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from his. It was blatantly sexual. There was no misinterpreting her intention. She knew what her gaze was doing to him.

“So, what’s it going to be?”

“Pardon?”

She held up the shawl in her left hand. “Pashmina?” Then she lifted her right hand. “Or cashmere?”

“You’re good at this,” he said.

“At what?”

“Your job. I hope you work on commission.”

“I don’t work here.”

She’d done it again. Surprised him. Nothing much surprised him these days. Being a psychiatrist in New York tended to jade a person. “And yet you know about Himalayan goats.”

She laughed again, turning up the heat. Intentionally? Yes. Oh, yes.

“I’m a virtual font of insignificant data,” she said.

“I am to real knowledge what an onion is to a martini.”

He reached over and took the pashmina shawl from her hand, letting his fingers brush hers. Mistake. The somewhat vague threat in his pants turned dangerous. He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened to him. College? Probably. Not that he didn’t get excited by certain women. But he rarely reacted in such a volatile fashion. He used the shawl to cover his embarrassment. She might know that she was turning him on. She didn’t need to know to what degree.

“I imagine you know quite a bit, Ms….”

She started to answer him, then stopped. She boldly studied him for a long self-conscious moment. Then her smile returned. Only this time there was more than a hint of wickedness in the grin. “Scheherazade.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

“Your real name is Scheherazade?”

She shrugged, and the movement made him aware of the shawl she had around her shoulders. During the whole conversation, he hadn’t even noticed. It was dark gray, and even without touching it, he knew it was pashmina. She’d never settle for second best.

“And who am I supposed to be? Sinbad? Aladdin?”

She took a step toward him, invading his personal space. Which was fine, except that he had some trouble breathing.

“Who do you want to be?”

“Right now I wouldn’t want to be anyone on earth but me.”

“Excellent answer.”

“So what do people call you? Sher?”

“No. But you may.”

He was about to comment, but a single finger touched his lips. An incredibly intimate gesture, something a lover would do. Not a stranger using a false name. Not a woman so beautiful it hurt.

She leaned over until her lips were close to his ear, close enough for him to feel her breath once more. “Why don’t we talk about this Wednesday night. At the Versailles hotel bar. Eight o’clock.”

Then she did the most remarkable thing. She nipped his earlobe. It didn’t hurt. It only lasted a second. But it was the single most erotic thing that had ever happened to him. By the time he was cogent enough to exhale, she was gone. He spun around, just in time to see her slip out the boutique door.

What in hell? Was that for real? Was she?

Wednesday night he had dinner plans with his friends Charley and Jane. He liked Charley and Jane. His dinners with them were the highlight of his week. He never cancelled.

He rubbed the shawl between his hands.

They’d get over it.

FIVE BLOCKS FROM THE BOUTIQUE, Susan slipped inside a coffee shop and found an empty booth. Her heart rate was in the scary zone, pumping with enough adrenaline to jump-start a dead battery. What the hell had she just done?

Okay, he was very handsome. But handsome men were a dime a dozen in Manhattan. Handsome didn’t explain her outrageous behavior. Well, there was that lower lip. Full in just the right way. Exceedingly kissable. And his eyes. Hazel leaning toward green. Bedroom eyes. Knowing eyes. Not to mention long, beautiful hands.

Which was not the point. Not at all. Wasn’t she just bitching about the fact that all men saw were her looks? That she was more than her parts? Did she just pick up a strange man because he was pretty?

No. That he was gorgeous was a bonus, not the reason. She couldn’t pinpoint her real motivation, not in words. It had been more of a feeling. A compulsion. The moment she’d laid eyes on him, she’d felt…something.

The waitress approached on squeaky shoes and took her order for coffee and a plain bagel, no cream cheese, no butter. When Susan was alone again, she got her cell phone from her purse and hit speed dial two.

“Hello?”

“Lee, it’s me.”

“Hey.”

Susan opened her mouth to tell her girlfriend about what she’d done. Only no words came out.

“Susan?”

Why was she hesitating? She told her friends everything. In detail. So what was the problem? This whole thing was nuts.

“Susan, are you all right?”

The concern in Lee’s voice snapped her out of her mini fugue state. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just distracted for a minute. How are you feeling?”

“Huge.”

“This too shall pass.”

Lee sighed. “Yeah? When?”

“In about two months.”

“Susan, what’s going on? You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I walked away from a pair of Jimmy Choo mules. I didn’t even try them on.”

“Ahhh. Now I get it. That was very brave. Very empowering.”

“Empowering, my ass. They were the exact color of my duchess jacket.”

“If you still feel that way, go back.”

“No, no. I can be strong.”

“Good girl.”

The waitress came and filled her cup with coffee.

“My food’s here,” she said. “I’ll call you later.”

“’Kay. Bye.”

Susan disconnected, then stared at the phone for a few moments. Mighty peculiar. She’d never made an excuse to get off the line with Lee. Or any of her friends. But the man in the camel coat wouldn’t let her alone.

Tall, lean, broad-shouldered, brown thick hair her fingers ached to touch. She lifted her cup to take a sip, then nearly spit a mouthful all over the table.

She’d bitten his earlobe!

A perfect stranger. Not a lover. Not even a friend. She’d bitten him. He must have thought she was a lunatic. Or a call girl. Either way, she hadn’t come out smelling like a rose.

She’d propositioned him. Teased him. Pretty much offered herself up on a silver platter. Which was ludicrous. She couldn’t possibly go to the Versailles Wednesday night. Sure, she talked a good game, daydreamed with the best of them, but the reality was, sex wasn’t an easy answer for her. She tended to confuse it with love, and then she tended to trust the son of a bitch, and then she tended to get her heart broken. Her dismal track record was reason enough not to pursue this.

He was a stranger. A good-looking stranger, but a stranger nonetheless. He could be a bank robber. A spy. A car salesman.

She smiled, thinking about the name she’d given him. Scheherazade. It had been the scarves, the music from the bookstore. Just a lark. A whim.

But she had to admit, the idea of being someone else held appeal. Would Larry have pursued her so single-mindedly if he hadn’t known she was Susan Carrington, heir to the Carrington fortune? Probably not. Definitely not.

The fact of her inheritance had been the death knell to every relationship she’d had since college. Even when she’d gone out with men wealthy in their own right, the money thing became a problem. It was her personal albatross. She avoided society parties like the plague. In fact, all her friends were just normal folk. Not a multimillionaire in the bunch. But it didn’t matter. As soon as a man found out her name, the jig was up. They tried to impress her. Act as if it didn’t matter, which meant it mattered a whole lot. They stopped seeing her as their brains clouded over with dollar signs.

At least she’d managed to temper some of her bitterness. Not that she wasn’t still cynical. She just didn’t want to neuter the male population any more. It wasn’t all of them that were bad, just the ones she chose.

The worst part was, she couldn’t complain. Not in good conscience. She had it all, the American dream, the brass ring. Except that all it had done was make her feel different, separate. She felt safe with her gang, and that was about the only place she felt safe. Thank goodness for them.

But Ben was married to Katy, Trevor was married to Lee and Peter was gay with a significant other of his own. No hope for a happy-ever-after there. They’d tried setting her up. Over and over, Katy and Ben in particular had played matchmaker. Nothing clicked.

At twenty-seven, she had no prospects. None at all. She could buy Jimmy Choo shoes until she got blue in the face, and it wasn’t going to help. It was all about money. Spending it, having it, worrying about it.

Lee had asked her once why, if the money was such a problem, she didn’t give it all away. Susan had uttered some slick answer then changed the subject. The truth was that the money was her blessing and her curse. She didn’t know who she’d be without it. Frankly, she was scared to be without it.

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.