Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  Dorothy-Anne smiled at her. 'Why do you think I wrapped this around myself?'

  'That!' Venetia scoffed, with a despairing shake of her head. 'You know what Mark Twain supposedly said, don't you?'

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'Who doesn't? 'The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.' '

  'You ask me, he was right,' Venetia said. 'But not just summer. The same goes for winter, spring, and fall. It's this damp. The chill penetrates right to your bones.'

  Venetia Flood was vice president of public relations for Hale Companies. She was black and beautiful—her accent was pure Alabama.

  She was six feet tall and had skin the color of pure honey. Slanted feline eyes, brutally slashing cheekbones, and a thick mane of long, combed-out black hair. Plus that proud, regal kind of bearing you only saw in certain Africans or on fashion runways.

  Venetia was thirty-eight years old and Dorothy-Anne's best girlfriend and confidante. A former top model, she had quit while she was still ahead, wisely deciding that the business world held a longer future than a glamour industry that worshiped youth.

  Now a top executive, Venetia still possessed a passion for clothes— clothes with an attitude, which were the only kind she wore, and the creations of Issey Miyake, her favorite designer, in particular. His oyster silk tunic dress, which she had on this evening, was masterfully cut, architecturally pure, and almost monastic in its deceptive simplicity.

  'I suppose I don't need to guess what you're doing out here.' Venetia slid Dorothy-Anne an oblique look. 'Didn't anyone ever tell you? The watched pot never boils.'

  'That's easy for you to say.' Dorothy-Anne's anxious eyes were still searching the shifting fog.

  'Stop worrying,' Venetia advised. 'Freddie will get here when he gets here. But it's up to me to hustle you downstairs. It's all Derek can do to keep the carnivores at bay.'

  Derek Fleetwood, chairman of the Hale Hotels, was Hale Companies' number three executive, after Dorothy-Anne and Freddie.

  'Not only are the natives becoming restless, but the press is beginning to get verrrrry antsy,' Venetia added ominously. 'And that makes for verrrrry bad publicity.'

  'But I can't go down without Freddie!' Dorothy-Anne protested.

  'You can, you must, and you will,' Venetia said firmly, placing one hand atop each of Dorothy-Anne's shoulders and steering her inside. 'With this fog, Lord only knows when he'll arrive.'

  Venetia slid the door shut, gave a theatrical shudder, relieved Dorothy-Anne of the throw, and tossed it on the nearest chair.

  'Now then, let me see how you look.'

  Venetia gave Dorothy-Anne a swift, professional once-over. Then, red-taloned fingers flying, she pinched a little here and tugged a little there on Dorothy-Anne's black boiled mohair gown with its curved neckline, snug three-quarter sleeves, and pool of excess fabric fanning out on the floor.

  Finally she stepped back and eyed her critically some more.

  'Wearing your hair that way lends you a kind of early Grace Kelly quality,' she said, nodding with approval. 'And, I just looooove what this gown does for you. Girl! Didn't I tell you Comme des Garcons is right up your alley?'

  'I'm just afraid I'll trip on the hem,' Dorothy-Anne fretted. She pinched each side of the skirt, lifted it, and looked down at herself. 'Or worse, that someone else might!'

  'Bah!' Venetia flapped a jangling, lavishly bangled limp wrist. 'Trust me. It looks fabulosa—especially the way it spills fluidly out all around you. And, I'm glad you took my advice and wore all black onyx with diamonds.' She paused. 'Well? Ready to go down and show them what dressed to kill really means?'

  'But my speech! Freddie was supposed to bring it.'

  Venetia waved a hand dismissively. 'All taken care of. He faxed it to me from Aspen. I put one copy on the lectern downstairs, and an extra copy in your clutch purse. That's just in case. All you have to do when we get downstairs is wait to be introduced and read it.' She smiled encouragingly. 'That doesn't sound so difficult, now, does it?'

  'And the ribbon cutting?'

  'Derek will hand you a giant pair of gold-leaf scissors. I know you and Freddie were going to cut the ribbon together, but since he's not here, catch the governor's eye. Ask him to help you do the honors. That'll make page one for sure!'

  Dorothy-Anne made a fluttery little gesture. 'I . . . .I'm not sure I'm ready for all this.'

  'Sure you are. Now grab that exorbitantly expensive Judith Leiber clutch or else I will—and then you'll never see it again! Oh, before I forget. One last thing.'

  Venetia grabbed her own purse and pulled out a pair of glasses with thin black frames. She held them out.

  Dorothy-Anne frowned at them. 'What are those?'

  'What are these? You are trying this girl's patience. Yes, indeed. What do you think they look like?'

  'Venetia! You know I don't need glasses.'

  Venetia smiled. 'You know that, and I know that, but they don't know that.' She unfolded the earpieces and popped them expertly on Dorothy-Anne.

  Dorothy-Anne looked around and frowned. Held a hand up in front of her face and frowned some more. 'They don't do a thing!'

  'Oh yes, child, they do. They may just be plain clear glass but . . .'

  Venetia took her by the arms and turned her around to face the full- length mirror.

  'See?'

  Dorothy-Anne stared at her reflection. Turned her head this way and that. 'I . . . I don't believe it!' There was a note of surprise in her voice.

  Venetia grinned. 'They add just the right touch, don't you think? You don't look a day older or any less beautiful, but they lend you a kind of . . . authority. Give you that serious air. Believe me, the men will respect you more, and the women will feel less threatened. Now, let's go and get this ceremony over with, shall we? You know me. I can't wait to get down and boogie!'

  3

  It was more than a grand opening, it was an event. The towering marble and gilt lobby was all decked out with pinkish white Pristine roses. The flawless blooms were everywhere. Lushly crammed into giant garden urns. Spiraling in thick garlands down the fluted breche d'Alep marble columns. Tucked in clusters among the crystals of the massive four-tier chandeliers. And swagged like huge floral bunting along the walls, around the doorways, up the balustrades of the grand staircase, and along the mezzanine railings.

  Every square inch was packed with formally dressed men and women. Nothing like it had ever been seen in San Francisco. It was a hothouse of roses, gowns, and rare jewels.

  The staircase had been roped off, and a lectern with a microphone had been set up on the third step from the bottom.

  At the foot of the stairs, the Fourth Estate was out in full force— television reporters, video crews, and still photographers. Up in the mezzanine, the print journalists were proceeding to get smashed.

  Derek Fleetwood was waiting at the top of the staircase when Dorothy-Anne and Venetia stepped out of the private elevator. If he was surprised by Dorothy-Anne's glasses, he didn't show it. He gestured down at the jammed lobby. 'What do you think of the turnout?'

  For a moment all Dorothy-Anne could do was stare. Turnout was putting it lightly.

  Venetia was right. If we don't have the ribbon cutting soon, they'll be storming the ballroom.

  'Shall we?' Derek hooked his arm through hers and together they descended the low broad steps to the lectern. He was six feet tall, had thick black hair graying at the temples, and cobalt blue eyes set in a strong, handsome tanned face.

  The hive like noise of the guests became a slowly diminishing drone; Dorothy-Anne was suddenly aware of faces looking up in expectation, of dark glassy camera lenses aimed and whirring. Her hand tightened on Derek's arm, and she was conscious of moving stiffly.

  He glanced sideways at her and smiled. 'Relax.'

  'Believe me,' she said out of the side of her mouth, 'I'm trying.'

  'Just remember. They can kill you, but they can't eat you. Right?'

  She laughed. He was rig
ht. What was the worst that could happen? She looked up at him. 'Thank you, Derek.'

  He smiled. 'What for?'

  'Helping me get through this without Freddie. Giving me confidence.'

  'I'm always glad to accommodate a beautiful lady.' He let go of her arm. 'Wait here until I've introduced you. Okay?'

  She nodded.

  'You'll be fine,' he said. 'Trust me.'

  And with that, he bounded down the last few stairs, where he rested his arms comfortably on the lectern and looked around, as though searching for someone.

  He had their full attention now. Everyone had fallen quiet, and the lack of sound was such that the silence seemed somehow more tangible than even the noise had been.

  He let the suspense build, then flashed his 250-watt Jumbocharger smile.

  'Gee,' he said into the microphone, 'thanks for the applause. Who'd you expect? Frank Sinatra?'

  That earned him laughs, and the ice was broken.

  'Seriously now. Ladies and gentlemen, first of all let me thank you on behalf of all of us at Hale Hotels for attending this opening. Unfortunately, the speaker who was supposed to introduce Ms. Dorothy-Anne Hale Cantwell has yet to arrive. Between the snowstorm in the Rockies, and the fog enveloping this city, he's been delayed—or maybe he popped in, took one look around, and decided San Francisco society was just a little too formidable!'

  There was more appreciative laughter, this time accompanied by scattered applause.

  My God! Derek's a natural. He makes it look so easy. He's already got them eating out of his hand!

  ' . . . And now, I have the privilege of introducing the person entirely responsible for erecting this beautiful world-class building. Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Ms. Dorothy-Anne Hale Cantwell!'

  There was a flurry of applause as he stepped aside and gestured up to Dorothy-Anne.

  She took her cue and came slowly down the steps. Only when she stood behind the lectern and looked out at the assembled guests did the applause die down.

  Her voice was strong and steady as she gestured around. 'What is this? The Rose Bowl parade?'

  There was a resounding roar of spontaneous applause, and she smiled until it grew silent.

  'Ladies and gentlemen. I'll keep this short and sweet, since if I were in your shoes, I'd wish the speaker would hurry the hell up so I can get down and party.'

  Laughter and more applause greeted her.

  'First of all, let me thank each and every one of you for coming and helping make this a memorable evening. As you are probably aware, for years now, hotels in the Far East—forgive me if I don't name the competition—have been crowing about setting the standard by which all other hotels are judged. Well, that made me so mad that I rectified the situation by erecting this, the San Francisco Palace, to show those Far Easterners a thing or two. Especially that American hotels—and one in San Francisco in particular—are and always will be NUMBER ONE!'

  'Hear, hear!' someone called out.

  'Thank you.' She smiled in the direction of the voice.

  'This sounds like a campaign rally,' a journalist shouted. 'Does this mean you're running for office?'

  Dorothy-Anne held up both hands, palms facing outward. 'Please. I have my hands full putting the American hotel industry back where it belongs—in the leadership position. What you are hearing is the shot heard 'round the Pacific!'

  Again, she had to wait until the waves of exuberant applause died down.

  'So willkommen, bienvenue, welcome. Tonight you are the guests of the San Francisco Palace. Please, just remember that drinking and driving don't mix. There's a suite upstairs reserved for every one of you. Just show your invitation to the concierge and you'll be given a key card to spend the night as my guest. Room service is included. As for entertainment, there's formal dancing in the ballroom for the conservative. For the young—and that goes for the young at heart, too—rock bands will be performing in the basement level Cave Club. And nostalgia buffs can twist the night away to live nineteen fifties rock and roll in the Cadillac Bar. You'll find buffet tables everywhere. So please. Eat, drink, be merry, and enjoy yourselves. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.'

  Derek had come up beside her holding a huge pair of gold-leaf shears.

  Dorothy-Anne leaned into the microphone once more. 'Now then, if Governor Randle would please be so kind as to help me cut the ribbon . . .

  The governor was happy for the photo opportunity. He was a large, heavy man, beefy rather than fat, with a shock of white hair and a ruddy complexion.

  In short order, the doors to the Regency-style ballroom were thrown open. It wasn't until then that Dorothy-Anne realized she hadn't bothered to consult the prepared speech. She'd ignored it altogether, and had ad-libbed her own.

  Good golly, Miss Molly. Will wonders never cease?

  The governor led her into the ballroom, and a swarm of couples followed them inside, lining the peacock blue and gilt-boiseried walls, careful to leave the dance floor empty. On the dais, one of Peter Duchin's society orchestras launched into 'Sentimental Journey.'

  'I don't know how to thank you, Governor Randle,' Dorothy-Anne told him softly.

  'Oh, I can think of a way.' He smiled.

  Her eyes sparkled mischievously. 'You mean . . . through a campaign contribution?'

  He laughed heartily—the deep kind of belly laugh that comes from way down inside. 'Actually, I was thinking about something a little less costly,' he said.

  'And what might that be?'

  'Giving me the first dance.'

  She smiled brilliantly. 'It'll be my pleasure.'

  He was still chuckling as he led her out onto the dance floor—shaking his head, murmuring, 'Campaign contribution!' to himself, and chuckling.

  Then, while the cameras whirred, he took her in his arms and they moved, smoothly as well-oiled machines, in time to the music. Gradually, the dance floor around them began to fill, until it became a sea awash with glamorous couples floating beneath the crystal chandeliers.

  She had to hand it to him. Big man or no, he was light as air on his feet. Obviously he'd gotten plenty of practice during a lifetime of fundraisers.

  The song ended and they stopped dancing. A man's voice came from behind them. 'Well, Governor? Are you going to share the wealth, or are you going to be selfish and keep this beautiful young lady all to yourself?'

  They turned and Dorothy-Anne found herself face-to-face with the most extraordinarily handsome man. He had charm, sex appeal, and charisma—plus the kind of self-assurance that came from the world being your oyster.

  Everything about him was California-perfect. His height—six foot two. His physique—the spare fitness that is the sign of the true athlete. His screen-star good looks—the hungry youthful face with its lapis blue eyes, sun-bleached hair, strong jaw, and terrific teeth.

  Hunt Winslow had it all. In spades.

  The governor sighed. 'Winslow,' he growled, 'don't you have any respect for your elders? You made it clear you want my job. Now you want my dance partner, too.'

  Dorothy-Anne and the man exchanged smiles.

  'Well, far be it from me to be ungracious. Ms. Cantwell, may I present my political rival and bête noir, Mr. Huntington Netherland Winslow the Third.'

  Dorothy-Anne held out her hand, and Winslow took it.

  'Hunt,' he said, flashing a blinding smile. 'I go by plain old Hunt.'

  'Plain, my foot!' harrumphed Governor Randle. 'Careful about Hunt here, Ms. Cantwell. He's our ladykiller-about-state.'

  Dorothy-Anne laughed. 'You don't have to worry about me, Governor. I'm a happily married woman.'

  'Glad to hear it. Which reminds me. I'd better be getting back to the lady I came with.' He made a courtly bow. 'Ms. Cantwell, it was a pleasure.'

  'The pleasure was all mine,' she said.

  Dorothy-Anne watched the governor leave. Then she turned to Hunt. 'Well? Are you really the ladykiller he claims?'

  He laughed. 'You mustn't believe eve
rything you hear, Ms. Cantrell.'

  'My friends call me Dorothy-Anne.'

  'Then I'd be delighted to join their ranks, Dorothy-Anne.'

  'Are you his rival?' she asked.

  'You mean, Old 'Randy Randle's'?'

  'Is that what they call him? Really?'

  Before he could reply, the orchestra began to play 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco.'

  'Shall we dance?' he said, putting his arm around her, and she could feel an involuntary ripple go through her, could sense the strength that lay hidden beneath his clothes.

  The governor was right. Hunt's a dangerous man. Too sexy for his own good . . . or mine.

  'So will you?' he asked as they danced cheek to cheek.

  She looked up at him. 'Will I what, Mr. Winslow?' she said softly.

  'Hunt,' he corrected her.

  She smiled. 'Hunt, then.'

  'Leave your heart in this city?'

  She laughed. 'Oh, a tiny bit of it, I'm sure. It seems to me I leave little bits and pieces of it everywhere I open a hotel.'

  'Sort of like Hansel and Gretel scattering crumbs?'

  She laughed and they danced smoothly on. When the music stopped, they drew apart and clapped politely. Dorothy-Anne caught Venetia signaling her and motioned her over.

  'Venetia, this is Huntington Winslow III. Hunt, this is Venetia Flood, my publicist.'

  Venetia shook hands with him. 'Senator,' she said softly.

  'Senator!' Dorothy-Anne stared at him. 'You didn't tell me that.'

  'State senator,' he said, giving a dismissive shrug. 'Can I get you ladies a drink?'

  'That would be lovely,' Dorothy-Anne said, and she and Venetia moved to the edge of the dance floor. 'Any word from Freddie?' she asked anxiously.

  Venetia shook her head. 'Not yet.'

  'Damn.'

  'Derek's calling the airports. He's left instructions all over the place that you're to be notified the instant Freddie touches base.'

  'I just hope he's all right,' Dorothy-Anne fretted.

  'Of course he is. And, if he knows what's good for him, he'd better hurry—because here comes your ravishing young senator.'

  'Venetia!' Dorothy-Anne protested. 'He's not mine!'