Читать книгу Hot Night - Shannon McKenna - Страница 9

Lucien was irritated. He’d specifically told Elaine not to mention his name—or rather, his alias—to anyone, but here she was, babbling away to her girlfriend about “Mark.” Brainless cow.

Elaine clicked her phone shut and gave him a tremulous smile. “Abby’s going to bring that extra set of keys to work tomorrow,” she said. “I can give it to you when we meet for dinner.”

Lucien stretched luxuriously before reaching across the tangle of sheets to wind his fingers into Elaine’s blond hair. He twisted, hard enough to make her gasp, enjoying her confusion before he kissed her and made it better. He pried the cell phone out of her cold fingers.

“Sweetheart. Did I or didn’t I say not to tell anyone about us?”

Elaine’s blue eyes got very big and began to blink nervously. “But that was just Abby! I had to tell her why I wasn’t home at one in the morning on a Wednesday night, or she would’ve gotten suspicious.”

“OK, OK,” he murmured. “But even so, it’s better if—”

“She’s been trying to persuade me to let myself go, and thank God I finally have, and I knew she’d be happy for me, so I thought I—”

“Shh.” He cut off her babbling with another hard kiss. “I said no one, and I meant no one,” he said sternly.

Elaine’s eyes overflowed. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was a shaking wisp. “I’ll tell Abby not to tell anyone. She won’t if I tell her not to.”

Yeah, thereby drawing even more attention to him. Perfect.

“Don’t make a big thing of it,” he said. “I don’t want to risk what we have by letting the whole world in on it. And besides…” He placed her hand on his penis. “…secrecy excites me.”

“Me too,” Elaine breathed, stroking him.

Of course, her too. If he’d expressed a desire to dive headfirst into a festering dumpster, sweet, suggestible Elaine would bleat ‘me, too.’ He forced a smile. “Who’s Abby? I want to know about your friends.”

Elaine brightened. “Oh, she’s our development manager. She’s fabulous. So smart and funny, and gorgeous, too. She’s a wonderful friend. She’s been here for three years, since Bridget fired the last…”

Lucien tuned out her empty chatter. He’d done his research on Abby Maitland, as he had for all of the museum’s administrative staff. He had a thick file on Abby. The photos had intrigued him. So had her background check. Jailbird father, alcoholic mother, an arrest for drug dealing for which she was later cleared. Most interesting.

She’d put it all behind her, though. Come to the West Coast, put herself through school, made a new life for herself. Admirable.

She was very attractive, in a tall, buxom Amazon sort of way. Her checkered, problematic past made her a good candidate for his plans, but he’d studied a close-up of her face one night, and decided against it.

It was her eyes that had tipped the balance. Too wary, too cautious. She’d been around the block too many times. Lucien was very good at feigning normal emotions. Ninety-nine point nine percent of humanity never knew the difference.

Abby Maitland looked like she might be in that point one percent.

Besides, he preferred his lovers more physically delicate. The pretty blond curator, Elaine Clayborne, met that description. She was also more fragile, naive and trusting, and so dull, he was in imminent danger of death by boredom. He should have targeted Abby Maitland. He’d have been able to maintain his erections better, at least.

“Is she seeing anyone?” he asked, cutting Elaine off midbabble.

Elaine floundered. “Ah…ah, no. Her date tonight bombed, so no possibilities there. I think this guy was one of Dovey’s blind dates. Dovey’s our development associate. He’s always trying to fix Abby up with guys who fit her List.”

“List? What list is that?”

“Oh. That.” Elaine let out a nervous titter. “Well, actually, she told me about that in confidence, so I probably shouldn’t—”

“I won’t tell anybody.” He looked deep into her eyes. “Trust me.”

Elaine blinked rapidly. “OK. It’s just that she’s had man trouble in the past, so she’s worked out strict criteria for the men she dates.”

“Money?”

“Well, they do need to be financially comfortable. And she likes fine dining, theater, music, high culture. I tease her about her List, but with the trouble she’s had, I really can’t blame her.”

“Interesting,” he said.

And it was. The most interesting thing that Elaine had told him so far, in the three weeks that he had been fucking her. He filed that tidbit away, rolled on top of her, and got down to the task of feigning passion.

It was hard going. This project wasn’t giving him the sexual buzz he needed. There was risk, and a vast profit margin, and the thought of stealing pirate gold appealed to him—but he didn’t pull jobs like this for money. He’d been rich all his life, and filching jewelry and fine art from his friends’ families’ villas in Monaco ever since he was a bored, thrill-seeking teenager. Desperate for something to make his heart pound.

He’d slowly realized, as he grew up, that he was a little bit different from other people. He had a blank spot inside him. A sort of emotional deficiency. He’d learned to cover for it, there being absolutely nothing wrong with his intelligence or his instinct for self-preservation.

But if he wanted a thrill, he needed something very, very intense.

His parents were busy and self-absorbed. They’d never noticed a problem. Why should they? He was charming, intelligent, good-looking, a high achiever. He’d been groomed to run the philanthropic arm of the vast, family-owned Haverton Corporation. He’d gotten the reputation for being the softie of the family, the bleeding heart who gave away money while the rest of the Haverton sharks slaved at making it.

The irony of that misconception secretly amused him.

He self-medicated as best he could. He’d tried drugs of all kinds, with mixed results. High-risk sports helped, bizarre and violent sex worked even better. Recreational murder was fun, too. Messy, though. He didn’t like spoiling his clothes, and he was repelled by the smells.

His all-time favorite high was stealing. Nothing beat it, for pure buzz factor. His best defense against boredom. He wasn’t afraid of pain or prison or death, but oh God, how he hated boredom.

If Elaine had been married to the museum director, if she were the director’s teenage daughter, if the stakes were higher for some reason, seducing her might be titillating enough to be worth the bother. It was stimulating to convince his victims that he loved them. It gave the killing blow that much more punch. Ultimate betrayal, and all that.

But not with Elaine. She had been so easy to seduce. She’d fallen in love with him almost instantly. Born victim. Big bore.

He rolled her onto her back and kissed her hard. He didn’t know what passion felt like, but he’d seen enough movies to know what it looked like. His fingers tightened around her hair. Her startled squeak of pain had a salutory effect on his erection.

He pushed her head down toward his lap, nudging his penis against her lips until she opened to him. He shoved himself into the warm, wet recesses of her mouth, closed his eyes, and established the rhythm he wanted, his fists tangled in her hair. Slightly better, but she made such irritating noises. Elaine was not skillful at fellatio.

He wondered if Abby was better. He would bet the Pirates’ Hoard that she was. The thought was very invigorating to his erection.

He imagined fucking Abby while Elaine was forced to watch, tied hand and foot. The image provoked a surprisingly powerful orgasm.

He smiled at the ceiling, stroking Elaine’s thin, trembling back.

Keep driving. Straight home. Don’t even think about going back to Abby’s place to see if it was true—that she’d wanted him to take things one step further, and whee, off they’d go, down the slippery slope.

But the poor woman had just been assaulted. If he was really interested in getting involved with her—and oh, was he ever!—then he had to take things slow. Show her that he was one of the good guys.

What’s a decent interval?

He laughed to himself. Dangerous question to put to a guy with a raging hard-on, sweetheart. Ten seconds, maybe?

Weird. He made a point of being sensitive to the fears of women who called him for late-night lockouts. He never came on to them, no matter how cute they were. But he hadn’t wanted to make Abby feel safe. His instinct had been to back her up to the wall, follow up every advantage, and plunder all that sweet bounty. Maybe it was the effect of the fight, if one could call that a fight. He could have hammered that dickless clown in his sleep. It was his glands talking. If he saved the female from the saber-toothed tiger, that meant he got to fuck her, right?

He could’ve handled the situation with less force, but the sound of her head smacking the wall had severely pissed him off. He’d broken the guy’s nose for sure, maybe sprained his wrist. Dickwad deserved it.

Hell of a first impression to live down, though.

Zan pulled up by the old factory building he and his brothers had bought and restored. Granddad and Zan’s youngest brother, Jamie, shared the apartment on the first floor. His sister Fiona’s room was there, too, though she’d been traveling across Asia for months. Free-spirited Fiona. It made him sweat to think of his baby sister wandering through the teeming cities of the world, but he couldn’t chain her down.

His mother had lived on the first floor, too, before she’d boogied off to Vegas to have her midlife crisis in style. His other two brothers, Christian and Jack, had divided the second floor, although Jack was currently in hermit mode and preferred his eyrie up on Bald Mountain.

The top floor was Zan’s lair. Arched windows reached from floor to ceiling on both sides. Exposed brick, hardwood floors, open spaces. He hadn’t partitioned it, except for the bathrooms, since he liked one huge, breezy room. The kitchen was at one end, locksmithing equipment at the other. Then there was his work zone, his leisure zone with couches and TV. His motorcycles were parked in a corner. Lots of space left over in the middle to do tai chi. It was tough to heat, but what the hell.

He killed the motor and pulled out his cell, punching a few buttons that would permanently save Abby Maitland’s number in his phone. He glanced up at the windows of his apartment.

Shit. That flickering light could only mean one thing. Granddad was awake, and was lying in ambush. He groaned. He didn’t want Granddad to bust his balls tonight. He just wanted to sprawl on his bed, dick in hand, and think about that girl.

Those slanted, wary brown eyes looked like they’d seen a lot. She had amazing lips, too. Such a unique, sexy shape: the sulky swell of the bottom, the delicate contours of the upper. And that swirling swish of auburn hair, just like the girls in hair conditioner commercials. He’d always figured that ultrashine effect was computer enhanced.

Abby’s hair was for real. He’d touched it. As soft as it looked.

And her body. Jesus wept. He didn’t go for female bodies that were stringy and taut, aerobicized down to nothing. He liked them like Abby, tall and strong, but round, too. Full tits and a round, gorgeous ass. The seams of her stockings drew the eye upward to shadowy glories beneath the short skirt. His hand tingled with longing to stroke that luscious curve. He hadn’t actually done it, but it had been a near thing.

His fantasy took on the form of a classic porn vignette. Horny locksmith comes to the rescue of hot babe, saving her from the evil bad guy. She invites him in, flushed with gratitude, and checks him out boldly, eyes lingering on his lips, then his chest, then his crotch. Her pink tongue flashes out to moisten her bottom lip…and whoa. He should save this one for the shower. Torrents of hot water and a soapy hand.

The fantasy played on, despite his efforts to squelch it. He pushed the low-cut dress down over her shoulders—just the lightest twitch should do it. Her tits would be propped up in some frilly bra. His mind hung up briefly on her nipple color scheme—pale pink, hot red, beige?

A light flicked on. Damn. The freight elevator rumbled open, revealing a tall, stooped figure behind the mesh gate. Granddad gave Zan a questioning jerk of his grizzled chin.

Zan sighed, and yielded to the inevitable. He got out and sauntered to the elevator. “Hey, Granddad. What are you doing awake?”

“A man don’t need much sleep at my age. I just been thinking.”

Always a dangerous development, Zan reflected as he stepped into the huge, battered elevator. “What made you decide to do your thinking in my apartment? I don’t remember giving you a key.”

Granddad glared out from under bushy eyebrows. The elevator began to creak and groan, hauling them up. “I got keys from Chris. Chris ain’t so uppity about his precious privacy. You got some lip, kid.”

“I’m thirty-six, Granddad,” Zan said patiently. “I’m not a kid. And yeah, I know, Chris is the good grandson these days.”

“Cut the crap.” Granddad’s voice was snappish.

The big doors ground open. Granddad had left the TV on. An old black-and-white movie flickered on the screen. “What have you been thinking about that’s keeping you awake?” Zan shrugged off his jacket and sprawled on the couch. Granddad shuffled over to the fridge, returning with two beers that exhaled a fine plume of cold vapor from their open necks. Zan accepted his gratefully and took a long pull.

“You.” The old man poised himself over the couch and thudded onto the cushions with a grunt. “I been worried about you, Alexander.”

Zan leaned back, closing his eyes. When Granddad called him Alexander, there was a lecture in the offing. “Here we go again,” he said.

“You been working too much,” Granddad announced. “You hide in here all day, playing on that goddamn computer—”

“Working on the computer,” Zan said, with rigid patience. “People pay me money to do it. I bill them. By the hour. Through the nose.”

“Playing,” Granddad insisted. “It’s like Nintendo. Kids play them things until they don’t know the difference between games and reality. That’s you. You never see normal people. You’re like one of those vampires on those TV shows. It ain’t healthy, and it ain’t normal.”

Zan ran the icy cold bottle across his forehead. “I promise, I’m not a vampire,” he said. “And you should be glad that business is good.”

“Business?” Granddad waved his bottle around. He was getting all cranked up. “I’m not talking about business! I’m talking about your life! You make good money, and that’s dandy, but it won’t do you a damn bit of good if you don’t have anything worth spending it on!”

“Why did you pick me to worry about?” Zan asked. “Why not Jack? He’s more antisocial than I am. Or Fiona. The last call we got was from Katmandu, weeks ago. And Jamie’s got a ring in his nose.”

“Oh, that’s just for his play.” Granddad dismissed Jamie’s nose ring with an airy wave of his hand. “And I do worry about all of you.”

“Wow. Lucky us,” Zan said drily.

Granddad blew a smoke ring, watched it dissolve. “Look at you! Thirty-six, and no girlfriend! It gets harder to snag a good woman, the longer you wait. You’d still look halfway decent if you’d get a haircut!”

“Look, Granddad, I’m too tired for this shit tonight—”

“You could shave, too.” Granddad was on a roll. “You’re letting yourself slide. Next thing you know, your gut rolls out over your belt, the crack of your ass starts to show, and that’s it, boy. You’re sunk.”

Zan gave the lean, muscular body sprawled out in front of him an appraising glance. “I sparred with Chris last week, and slammed him so hard he’s still not speaking to me. The crack of my ass isn’t going to start showing anytime soon. And besides, I’ve had lots of girlfriends.”

“And where are they? You tomcat around and scratch your itch, maybe, but you haven’t brought any of them home to meet us!”

Zan snorted with laughter. His discreet, infrequent affairs could hardly be described as tomcatting. He thought about Abby, and lifted his beer bottle in a silent toast. “I’m working on it, I promise.”

“Well.” Granddad harrumphed. “Work harder. I ain’t getting any younger, and I want to get me some great-grandbabies.”

“Let Jack take the heat on the grandbaby issue. He’s the oldest.”

“I will, soon as I get my hands on him,” Granddad said darkly.

“And I am going out during daylight hours this week,” Zan told him. “I’m doing a job for the Boyles. Key job for the art museum. I’ll have to interact socially, maybe even with women. Is that normal enough for you?”

Granddad stuck out his stubbled chin. “Smart-ass punk. Why the hell are you working for the Boyles, after what they did to you?”

Zan shrugged. “I’ve put it behind me. It’s a job, like any other.”

“Like any other, my ass.” Granddad let out an explosive grunt of disgust. “You don’t need money bad enough to subcontract from them two snakes. You don’t need money at all, from what I can see.”

Zan took a slow, meditative sip of beer. “I think Walt calls me for jobs because he feels bad about what happened,” he said quietly.

“Bullshit,” Granddad said, a shrewd gleam in his eye. “Walt calls you because you’re smart. He needs smart people.”

“He’s got Matty,” Zan pointed out. “Matty has a degree in electronic engineering. I don’t have a degree in jack shit.”

“Degrees don’t mean nothing,” Granddad scoffed. “You’ve got more brains in your little finger than Matty has in his whole body, and everybody knows it. You watch your back, boy.”

The door to the stairwell swung wide. An apparition in black leather, mascara and dreadlocks strutted in. His little brother, Jamie.

Zan shut his eyes and groaned. “Who the hell gave you a key?”

Jamie brandished the diamond pick and tension wrench Zan had incautiously taught him to use some months back. “Don’t need one.”

“I didn’t say to practice on me,” Zan complained. “It’s illegal.”

“So have Chris arrest me. He’d have a ball.” Jamie yanked open Zan’s fridge and eyed the beer stash with disdain. “This stuff is horse piss, Zan. Want me to go downstairs and get you a decent beer?”

“Don’t drink it if you don’t like it. What’s with your new look?”

Jamie popped open a beer, took a swig, and grimaced. “Horse piss,” he muttered again. “My look is for my play, lamebrain.”

“Play? What play?”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “Earth to Zan? I told you about the play, remember? The Stray Cat Playhouse summer stock season? They’re doing Romeo and Juliet, and I choreographed the duels. Then last week, the guy playing Tybalt broke his leg parasailing, and the director asked me to fill in. I’ve been rehearsing every night for the past week, and this is the first time you’ve noticed my makeup job?”

“Oh, I noticed it,” Zan said. “I just didn’t think it was out of character, so it didn’t occur to me to comment on it.”

Jamie rolled his heavily made-up eyes. “Just for the record, I may be a weirdo, but I’m not the type of weirdo who wears mascara.”

“Huh,” Zan muttered. “That’s a relief, I guess.”

“Tybalt’s a great part,” Jamie went on. “All I do is swagger around and make trouble. Halfway through the play, Romeo slashes my throat with a beer bottle. I wish Fiona were here. She’d get a big kick out of it.”

“I bet she would,” Zan agreed. “Bloodthirsty demon that she is.”

Granddad and Jamie exchanged meaningful glances.

“I, uh, ran into Paige at the Performing Arts Center today,” Jamie said carefully. “She looks good. Seems to be doing real well.”

Zan stiffened at the mention of his most recent ex-girlfriend. “Good. Glad to hear it. What does that have to do with anything?”

“My show opens weekend after next,” Jamie said. “It would be a perfect opportunity to, ah…call her up. See a romantic play with her.”

“You guys have been putting your heads together, haven’t you?”

“You’re in a rut, Alexander,” Granddad added earnestly. “You need to get out. Meet some ladies. It’s time to think about your future.”

“You guys back off and mind your own business,” Zan snarled.

They all stared into the TV. A blonde was pleading with a guy in a trenchcoat. He said something. She hauled off and slapped him. He planted a passionate kiss on her cupid’s-bow mouth. The girl slowly stopped struggling and wrapped her arms around Trenchcoat’s neck.

Yeah, right. That kind of move never worked in real life.

The cell rang. He fished through his pocket, eager for an excuse to disappear. Maybe Abby had gone to check her mailbox and gotten locked out again. This time in a filmy peekaboo nightie.

His bubble burst as soon as he answered. Just some dumb college kid down at the roadhouse who’d locked himself out of his car.

Boring as hell, but anything was better than staring at Jamie’s and Granddad’s disapproving faces.

“Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” chirped the girl with pink spiked hair behind the espresso cart. “What’ll you have, Abby? Your usual?”

Brilliant morning sunlight glinted off the studs that decorated Nanette’s nose and brows. They hurt Abby’s eyes.

“You OK?” Nanette’s brows furrowed. “You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks, Nanette. Give me the usual.”

“You got it.” Nanette’s hennaed hands worked efficiently. “I’ll put chocolate-covered coffee beans on top. That’ll give you a nice buzz.”

“Hair of the dog that bit me. And make a decaf soy latte for Elaine, OK? Today it’s my turn to provide coffee.”

“Yeah, I saw her sprinting by here a couple of minutes ago,” Nanette said. “She could use some coffee. She looked stressed out.”

Abby dug into her purse for her wallet. Her eyes stung with exhaustion. She’d been too wound up to sleep, and had ended up watching the rest of the film on the Classics Channel. After the movie, she’d surfed late-night cable, anchoring herself in reality by consuming a pint of Fudge Ripple. She’d woken on the couch with Sheba draped across her neck, barely in time to shower and run for the bus.

Abby took a bracing sip of her espresso before heading into the museum. She had to stop launching her day with sugar and caffeine. The ice cream in front of the TV hadn’t done her much good, either. Tomorrow she’d cut back to bran flakes, or else shop for a whole new wardrobe next size up. And she was no skinny Minnie as it was.

First things first, though. Proofread the gala journal to make sure no big-shot VIP donors’ names were misspelled. Make a gazillion wheedling phone calls to remind trustees and Museum Council ladies to get their RSVPs in. Meet with the artists who were helping with the gala decorations, light a fire underneath their flaky artistic butts. Organize the volunteers to assemble and stuff hundreds of goodie bags with the gifts donated by local businesses and gala sponsors. Tally the money they’d pulled in so far, calculate how many more checks had to come in to reach their funding goal. Above all, she somehow had to avoid Bridget, her scary boss, in order to get it all done. Bridget was hell to work for, threatened as she was by Abby’s talent. Bridget was also married to the executive director of the museum. Enough said.

To make things even more fun, the admin offices had moved into the new wing this week, so everything was in boxes. It was the worst possible timing, right before the gala, but one could argue that it was Abby’s fault they were moving at all, since she was partly responsible for the budget surplus. She did try to look on the bright side of things.

Abby slipped into Elaine’s office. Elaine was on the phone. “Yes, fettucine alla boscaiola, and grilled swordfish…stuffed mushrooms, and the garlic calamari. For dessert, the panna cotta. Garlic-rosemary focaccia, and Prosecco…yes, and add a twenty-five percent gratuity for the delivery person. Same address as last night, please…yes, nine o’clock is fine. Charge it to the usual account. That’s great. Thank you.”

Elaine hung up the phone and turned. Abby’s cheerful greeting stuck in her throat. Elaine was lovely as always, in her fragile blond way, but she did not have the euphoric glow of sexual fulfillment.

She looked pinched. Haunted, almost.

Abby hid her dismay and set Elaine’s coffee down, rummaging in her purse. “Here are your house keys, as promised. So how about this secret lover? Did Mystery Mark let you sleep?”

Elaine’s gaze slid away from hers. “Not much.”

“A romantic dinner for two, huh?” Abby persisted. “Good for you. Who did you order that sexy meal from?”

“Oh, that’s Café Girasole. My mother has a corporate account.” Elaine looked sheepish. “I just call up and pretend to be Gwen, Mom’s secretary, ordering dinner for Mom. No one ever calls me on it.”

Elaine’s mother, Gloria Clayborne, was by far the richest woman in town. Abby could well imagine that no one called Elaine on it. That had to be at least a four-hundred-dollar meal from Café Girasole, the trendiest restaurant in Silver Fork. “Yum. Here’s your decaf soy latte.”

“Thanks, Ab, you’re a sweetie, but Mark already made me one.”

“He made you coffee?” Abby said approvingly. “Good man. He gets points. Did he make you breakfast, too?”

“No, he made me a decaf soy latte,” Elaine said, stressing every word. “He bought decaf espresso, he foamed the soy milk, he even sprinkled it with cinnamon. He remembered how I took my espresso from the first coffee bar we went to together. Every tiny detail.”

Abby blinked. “Wow. That’s, uh…that’s really special.”

“I know.” Elaine looked nervous. “Um, I have to ask a favor, Abby. I promised Mark I wouldn’t tell anybody about us. At least not until his divorce is final. So I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself. I shouldn’t even have told you last night. He was so mad.”

Mad? At Elaine? Who could be mad at Elaine? It was like being mad at a baby bird. “Divorce?” Abby prodded gently.

“I can’t tell you the details until he’s comfortable with it. Please don’t be mad, OK? He won’t even let me park near his house, he’s so paranoid. He makes me park in a garage five blocks away.”

“Of course not. Don’t worry,” Abby said heartily. “My interest won’t go away. But Elaine…you look kind of peaked. Are you OK?”

Elaine sank down into her chair, her translucent eyelids fluttering. “He’s, well…I’m not used to…oh, never mind.”

Abby stared at her, eyes narrowed. “What aren’t you used to?”

Elaine looked strangely lost. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “It was so perfect, the first week. Then I started feeling, um, odd. The things he likes, they’re a little, well…extreme. And then last night, after he got mad, after you called, it got really, uh, strange.”

Abby was open-minded about sex, but not when it came to the fragile Elaine. Her protective instincts bristled up like gun turrets on a tank. “Define strange,” she demanded. “Please be specific.”

Bright spots of color stained Elaine’s cheeks. “It’s hard to describe,” she said primly. “It was a mood thing. Just, ah, darker.”

“Rougher? Did he hurt you?” Abby’s belly clenched.

“Oh, no! It was more, ah, psychological than physical.”

“Head games,” Abby said grimly. “Big pig. Thumbs down.”

“You’re overreacting.” Elaine’s voice shook. “I can’t expect a guy to be perfect, right? There are always adjustments to make.”

Abby shook her head. “No, honey. Some things you should take for granted. Like him being gentle and respecting your feelings.”

Elaine would not meet her eyes. “Don’t lecture me, please.”

Abby counted to five, lips tight. “I just worry about you, honey.”

“I appreciate your concern, but a woman’s got to take chances, right?” Elaine’s smile was shaky. “Isn’t that what you always tell me?”

“Within limits,” Abby specified. “As long as you’re having fun.”

Elaine looked childlike and uncertain. “I don’t know. Fun isn’t the right word for it. It’s more like being terrified. Or jumping off a cliff.”

“Ouch,” Abby said sourly. “Woo hoo. Sounds like a real party.”

Elaine didn’t seem to register her sarcasm. “He’s so gorgeous. I never thought such a handsome guy would be interested in me.”

Abby prayed for patience. “Elaine, you are beautiful. Top ninety-ninth percentile beautiful. For God’s sake, get it through your head. Women would kill to look like you. You’re being safe, at least, right?”

“Yes, Mother,” Elaine said demurely. “Don’t worry. Things will be better tonight. We just had a weird moment. A mood thing. No biggie.”

Abby declined to comment. Weird moment, her ass. Mystery Mark was a big fat loser, her instincts screamed it, but Elaine had to find out the hard way. Like Abby had. God knows she had no right to judge.

Still, she worried. In fact, her skin was practically crawling.

“Let’s grab lunch tomorrow, at Kelly’s,” Abby said. “You don’t have to tell me details. All I’m interested in is how you feel. OK?”

“OK,” Elaine said reluctantly. “It’s not like you think, Abby. He’s so romantic. He saw the Pirates’ Hoard last year when it was in New York. You know that Flemish medallion with the gold scrollwork and the sapphire cabochons? He says they’re exactly the color of my eyes. He wants to make love to me while I wear that necklace. Isn’t that sweet?”

Abby grunted, unimpressed. “He could buy the reproduction from the museum gift shop and play out his fantasy for two hundred eighty-five bucks rather than…How much is the Pirates’ Hoard insured for?”

“Forty million dollars.” The clipped voice from the doorway made them both jump. Bridget stalked into the office. “With two weeks to uncrate this installation, you ladies have more urgent things to do than titillate each other with sexual fantasies.” She turned a fishy glare upon Abby. “I need an update of your progress on the gala today at noon.”

Abby floundered. “But…but I already have a noon meeting with the volunteers who are putting together the goodie bags, and then I—”

“Rearrange your schedule. I’m meeting with an important donor at one.” She swept out, leaving a suffocating cloud of Joy in her wake.

Great. Now she had to make another ten frantic phone calls to schedule another time for the volunteers’ meeting. A typical day on Planet Bridget. Abby took a desperate swig of espresso and hustled into her office. The phone was blinking. She grabbed the receiver. “Yes?”

“Abby? Dovey’s holding for you on line two,” the receptionist said.

God forbid he had another blind date. Dovey was determined to find her Mr. Right, and much as she appreciated his efforts, today was not the day. “Put him through,” she said. “Dovey? Are you there?”

“I am! And how is my lovely Abby today?”

“Not so lovely, I’m afraid. I’m swamped, and Bridget’s cracking the whip big time. Where are you? Can I call you back later?”

“This will take just a minute. How was your date with Edgar?”

“Train wreck,” Abby said, shuddering. “Bloodbath. Total carnage.”

Dovey clucked his tongue. “This may seem strange, but I’m glad to hear it, because I’ve found a much better candidate! Hetero, forty-three, handsome, intelligent, single—that is to say, divorced—”

“Divorced?” It made her think, uneasily, of Mysterious Mark. Brrr.

“Three times. The wives’ fault. Bitches, all three. Apart from that, he fits every requirement on the List, right down to liking cats!”

Abby took a gulp of coffee. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Dovey was so excited, she hated to tell him how unenthusiastic she felt. No matter how Listworthy this guy was, he wouldn’t have anything on a hunkadelic locksmith. “What does he do?” she asked dutifully.

“He’s a psychotherapist,” Dovey said. “I can personally vouch for his financial solvency, love. You could balance the budget of a small country with the money that I’ve paid him in the last few years.”

Abby stared out the window as she doodled on her desk calendar. “You’re sweet to think of me, Dovey, but can’t we give it some—”

“Just give me permission to give him your number,” Dovey pleaded. “Then just lie back and let destiny take its course.”

“That sounds alarming.” Abby fidgeted, fishing for an excuse.

“Pretty please?” Dovey wheedled. “He could be your date to the gala. I’ve already sold him a ticket. And he’ll look great in a tux.”

She doodled some more, stalling. “What’s his name?”

“That means yes, right? His name is Reginald Blake. You’ll love him. He’s perfect. I’ll call him up right away. Ciao!”

Abby hung up, and noticed that the locksmith’s number was still on her thumb. Her shower had faded it. Before she knew what she was doing, she had rewritten it on her thumb in fresh, wet black ink.

Yikes. She watched the ink dry, alarmed at herself.

It was normal to have fixated on Zan. He’d saved her from an awful fate. He was also drop-dead gorgeous. There was probably a name for this in the psych manuals; the Something-or-Other Syndrome.

A List-approved date was the perfect way to distract herself from this silly infatuation. Tonight, even. Why not? She ran her love life. She did not let it run her. And having a date for the gala would be nice.

Her eyes wandered to her desk calendar. Her doodles practically leaped out at her. Zan Duncan. Zan Duncan. Zan Duncan.

His name was emblazoned all over the month of June.

The chocolate-covered coffee beans Nanette had given her caught her eye, still wedged into the recesses of the plastic coffee lid. She pried them out, popped them into her mouth and crunched them up.

One had to take life’s little comforts wherever one found them.