by Babe Hayes
But the nagging question that caused Paeton the most anxiety was what if the nation could tell the difference? How could she ever look at anyone, especially her own children, without utter shame and guilt?
#
The show was almost over. Fred came back into the waiting room after checking with Liesl on how the voting was going. He was smiling broadly. “You were right, Paeton. Everyone is obviously guessing. When the videos are switched on the screen, no one can figure out which kid is which.”
“Good.”
Fred took her hand. “Good? It’s great! The other good news is that the voting audience is telling you to stay in the competition.”
“Sales should be back on track? Velvet Arrow will be happy?” she asked tentatively.
“Sales should be back on track, yes. And it’s turning out that the nation doesn’t care that you switched babies and never reported it. That’s what we were waiting for.” Fred gave his hair a finger-comb of finality. “Thank god!”
“And Christian will let me write the screenplay?”
“I believe so. It looks as if Kaselman is dropping out of the picture as far as you’re concerned. We don’t need him anymore. We’re in the clear. Now he can fight his own battles that have nothing to do with us.” Fred stood up. “Come on, I’ll buy dinner. I think champagne is in order.”
“That good, huh?” Paeton said hollowly. She was supposed to feel relief. But all she felt was a sudden emptiness at the thought that Steve Kaselman was exiting her life—for good.
If he didn’t call, would she have the courage to call him? And even if she did, would it change anything?
#
Paeton stood unsteadily, trying to make her finger punch the first button for his phone number. Her heart was in her throat. It was ridiculous to be so tense about it. She had a ninety percent chance of getting Greta anyway. She had been standing there for at least five minutes. The girls were out with Rosa, so no one could see her equivocation.
Ring!
It was her cell phone calling her from a table across the room. She stood frozen. Three people knew her cell phone number: Rosa, Fred and—him! She knew it couldn’t be Rosa. She never had an emergency she couldn’t handle. Paeton knew Fred was keynote-address speaker at today’s Romance Writers of America conference. The person on the other end had to be—
She couldn’t move. The cell phone crouched on the table like an ugly, sleeping spider that had been rudely awakened.
Ring!
She moved slowly toward the phone, her mind jumbled, doing her best to rehearse an aloof response if she managed the courage to answer it.
Ring!
She hung over the creature, steadying herself.
Ring!
She saw the caller ID—it was him! One more ring and it would go to voice mail. She lifted the phone shakily to her ear. “Hello?”
“Paeton. Hi! It’s me. Sorry I didn’t call. You probably didn’t know it, but a fellow sportscaster died in a car wreck, and I’ve been doing double duty. I—we needed some quality time to straighten this thing out, and I simply didn’t have it. I hope you’ll forgive me.” He paused briefly. “By the way, I saw the show last night. From what I’ve read in the papers, things look positive for both of us.”
Paeton started to respond but decided against it. Straighten things out? Could they ever straighten anything out?
He didn’t wait for her to speak. He continued talking very fast, not letting her get a word in. That seemed to be his plan. “You know, I started thinking that all I do is make you angry. So maybe there is nothing to work out. Maybe we need to call it quits. But it’s been so wild, I figured we owed it to Destiny to trumpet our laying down of swords.”
He hesitated, waiting for a response. This time, even had she wanted to, Paeton was too shocked by his words to respond. She had to find a place to sit. Her head was reeling. She hadn’t dreamed he would ever be the one to end the relationship. Or whatever it was they had.
When she remained silent, he continued. “So, call it closure. Call it act three. Call it just for we-really-didn’t-have-any-old-times-to-call-it-for-old-time’s-sake sake. I don’t care what you call it, but will you have dinner with me one last time?”
Was he being silly? Serious? Is he calling it quits? He wants to go out to dinner?
Once again, he knocked her off balance. She loved it when he did. She hated it when he did.
“Please? You’ll feel guilty forever if you deny me this psychological need.” He paused again for a response. Getting none, he persisted. “Come on. You’ll be responsible for the mental destruction of the world’s greatest apologizer if you don’t have dinner with me.”
Yes. He was. He was flirting like crazy. He was teasing like crazy. She could envision his wheedling smile as he coaxed her to accept. He never had any intention of calling it quits between them. He had gotten her guard down. He had caused her confusion. That rotten, no-good—now she was mad! He doesn’t call for a week and then dinner? She’d burn in hell before she’d accept!
And why should she? The TV show had indeed been a great success. She had been making great progress on the screenplay—at least fifteen pages. SMACK had lifted the boycott. She was a shoo-in for National Single Mom of the Year. Everything was right with the world. Except she was dying to accept Kaselman’s invitation to dinner, and she’d be damned if she would ever talk to the man again!
“Paaae-ton? Come ah-on. Chez d’Paris?” His voice was sing-songy. Playing with her. She felt a grin begin to break her frown. “Okay, I can feel you’re very close to accepting.” He paused. “Paeton? You’re still there, right? Or am I talking to myself here?”
As aloofly as she could through her smile, she answered, “I’m here.” She was going to make him suffer.
He was stumbling. “Good. Good. Uh, Paeton, okay, here are my rules of behavior.” Now he wasn’t quite so sure of himself. She finally had him going. Good! Let the little snot squirm some!
“I won’t openly wince when you refer to me as Kaselman. I will say please and thank you. I will make no move to touch you, except maybe offer my hand as you leave my automobile. And I will—”
“Okay.” She couldn’t hold out any longer.
“Excuse me?”
“I said okay. What time Saturday?”
“Uh, Saturday? Uh, of course. Uh, how about, how about, uh, how about eight?” Now he was stuttering.
“Eight is good.” She hung up.
As soon as she put the phone down—whoosh!—she felt as numb as she had on the plane discovering Ryan. She sat down clumsily. Why did she accept? She knew he would never marry her. But Steve Kaselman was her obvious undoing. Her nemesis. Her worst nightmare.
And she couldn’t wait until Saturday, eight o’clock!
#
Across the table was her most dangerous enemy—Steve Kaselman’s eyes! When she accepted the invitation for dinner at Chez d’Paris, she knew she couldn’t avoid those eyes all night.
“I’m glad you decided to let us celebrate our winning the series, so to speak.” Steve held high a glass of Rothschild 1968. “I would like to propose a toast.” Paeton lifted her glass as well. “To the two people who put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”
Steve put his glass out to click Paeton’s. She held hers back.
“I’m sorry, Kaselman, but I don’t understand.” She used his last name in an effort to keep the upper hand.
Steve winced, but followed up with his inimitable smile. “Scrambled babies. Scrambled eggs, get it? No more scrambled babies?”
Paeton laughed, shaking her head. “You do have a weird sense of humor sometimes.” She clicked his glass.
“Now you make a toast.” She made no response. “Please? Just a little one. Do you realize we beat the scumbags? We got the world to love us again. There’s nothing stopping us now! We’re the winners. The good guys won for a change.”
He waited. Paeton knew her heart was vulnerable. She chastised herself for ac
cepting his crazy invitation in the first place.
Neither of them spoke or moved. At first she couldn’t look at him. For heaven’s sake, Paeton! She straightened her spine. Don’t be so intimidated! By god, she would be in charge again! She had fought and won, and she deserved some pleasure on her own terms.
Paeton decided to comply with his request for a toast. In her newfound bravado, she slowly raised her glass and her eyes to meet the marvelous demons of too-tight-vest. “To the good guys. To the winners,” she offered.
Then, unexplainably, something extraordinary came over her. It was a heat she had never felt before. It started at the bottom of her back and surged up to the back of her neck where her hair stood on end. She heard planetary music, and she saw in those demons the purple magic-marker heart, and inside it the scrawled graffiti. It read “Paeton + Steve,” not simply “P + S” as it had really been at the airport. She felt her heart swell with the same inscription. She felt as if her heart might explode. She heard herself say in a full, strong voice, “To us! To Paeton and,” then her voice broke, “Steve!”
She had called him Steve! Paeton could see they were both amazed. Steve’s arm was frozen, his glass to hers. He never relinquished her eyes.
An eternity passed. They lowered their glasses but not their eyes. Suddenly, she was back at the airport. She was sharing butter pecan. She was everywhere she had ever been when she and Steve caressed each other’s eyes. The Rothschild 1968 went everywhere too. Her breasts felt full and heavy as her breathing began to move to the rhythm of the soft violins in the background.
Then, just as suddenly, just as rudely, she was back at the lake and shacking up! She felt a hard clump as she put her wine glass down.
“May I take your order?”
Their server was standing at the table, pad in hand, bringing her to reality.
Steve held up his hand as Paeton started to scan the menu.
“We’ll have the Chateaubriand Oscar. Medium rare. And please prepare the chocolate soufflé for two.” Steve was staring at Paeton the entire time he was ordering. “What do you think? Let’s make it a ‘C and C’ evening.”
“Excuse me?” Paeton was still wrestling with the conflicts raging within her regarding Mr. Steve Kaselman.
“Calories and cholesterol.” He laughed a little too heartily.
Paeton knew his forced buoyancy was the result of the lingering discomfort with the outburst at the lake about shacking up. But she found herself laughing too. In truth, she had no choice but to join him whenever he laughed. His laugh was almost as infectious as his eyes.
The point? Keep a lid on her natural urges. Because Paeton was beginning to understand that she had no choice about anything when it came to Steve Kaselman. She was convinced of that now. She might as well face the fact that for good or for ill, everything about Steve was seductive. And the “winning,” as Steve had put it, gave her a rush of abandon. But, she convinced herself, as long as she kept up her guard, what was one night off her diet—or on Steve Kaselman?
“Damn the torpedoes!” She held her glass high again. “Here’s to calories and cholesterol!” Their glasses and their eyes touched once more.
The entree was heavenly! When all was cleared and the table readied for dessert, she fought off an urge to put her hand out on the white linen for Steve to take. She denied herself that risk. She was sure his hand would seek hers, and she didn’t trust her reaction in the euphoric state she found herself.
But Steve turned the tables when he put his hand across to her. She watched with wonder as her hand rose from her lap to rest on his, their fingers entwining.
The soufflé arrived. Their consumption of the chocolate delight was a sensuous treat. They had gone the whole route, splashing pitchers of heavy cream over the lavish, sinful dish. Paeton heard mingling laughter and groans of pleasure as they lavished tantalizing spoonfuls into each other’s mouth.
Dessert fully consumed, Paeton rested back in her chair, congratulating herself. She had flirted with the danger of being with this devil of a male and had emerged unscathed. She was completely through dinner without having had this case of erotic dynamite explode, even if the fuse had burned far too close for comfort. A taxi ride home and I’ll be safe in bed—alone!
“Ever been to Ricki’s in San Francisco?” Steve’s eyes glinted mischievously.
“No. I don’t know San Francisco very well. I’m an East Coast girl.” He was up to something. The problem was Paeton felt all too ready to accept.
Steve jumped up and whispered hoarsely, “Let’s go to Ricki’s!”
Paeton almost tipped over backward. “Right now?” she responded, shakily.
“Yes, of course, right now. We both have nannies. And my mother let’s me stay out after midnight.”
He was gaining momentum. She knew she should say no to whatever it was Steve was concocting before it was too late.
“Grab a cab, airport in twenty minutes. Planes leave on the hour. Takes about an hour. Be there by two.”
Her heart pounded out a warning, but the thrill of what might be coming drew a curtain across it. She was scared to death of what she knew lay ahead, and she couldn’t wait to embrace it! “Two?”
“Ricki’s till closing at four o’clock—then breakfast at the Top of the Mark till whenever.” Steve was coming around to pull back her chair. “What do you say? Winners! Don’t we deserve to let out all the stops? All that we’ve been through. Never to go through again.”
As stealthily as a phantom, Steve was behind her, tugging at her chair. The hair on the back of her neck was tingling—as were other more significant and frightening portions of her body. “Well, I guess if—when do we get back from San Francisco?”
“Oh, let’s never come back!”
Paeton felt her mouth fall wide open in a gasp.
“I’m kidding. We’ll be back by nine tomorrow morning. Promise.” He took her hand the way he had that night in her hotel suite. Only that time it was for comfort. And this time? Paeton fastened her “seatbelt!” Was she really going to do this?
“Okay, but let’s call the nannies.” She felt herself squeeze Steve’s hand. Why deny that she loved the feel of Steve’s hand holding hers? Why deny that this jock did things to her that no male had ever done before? But did he want more than simple conquest? Was she just another game to win and then—?
“We can call from the plane. Come on, we may have only two sets left at Ricki’s.”
“Tennis?” Things were moving much too fast for Paeton McPhilomy.
Steve laughed warmly, put her hand to his lips, and kissed her fingertips gently. “No, not tennis sets, silly. Dance sets. Gee, Paeton, I’m not always into sports.”
Paeton’s heart was doing cartwheels. It was definitely more than the Rothschild 1968 that was affecting her. Was Steve Kaselman different from other jocks? Did his world expand outside of jockdom?
Or after conquest, would he—?
Chapter 12
Paeton’s pumps were shucked, and the shiny oak dance floor was burning holes in the balls of her feet. She could almost smell the smoke. But she knew that smoke wasn’t coming only from Ricki’s dance floor. It also was coming from the fire Steve had ignited within her.
“Hey, for a single-mom writer, you’re not a bad dancer.” Steve had removed his jacket and tie and was laying down some mean steps of his own. His smile spread ear to ear as the perspiration rode down his cheeks.
Paeton’s face was streaked too, and her entire body was flushed with excitement and relief. She realized how the baby scare had turned her life upside down and left her hanging helpless, fearful, angry, and frustrated. She put every ounce of energy into grinding the agony of the past few weeks into Ricki’s dance floor. An agony never to return, she hoped. She didn’t think she was up to another bout with the media, and all that came with it.
“You’re not so bad yourself for a guy who wears his vests too tight.” She playfully pinched his stomach.
Ste
ve laughed, whisking Paeton into him. Just as quickly, he spun her away, waiting until she was almost about to collide with the stage, then rescuing her with his strong hand and spinning her back. Then the two of them, tightly entwined, hopped and popped around the dance floor like a top almost out of control, deftly missing collision after collision with other less exuberant couples.
Paeton tossed her head, splashing her auburn hair against the frenzied music. She found Steve’s eyes, and the reflected fantasies were inappropriate for Ricki’s dance floor. She laughed naughtily and put her mouth to Steve’s ear. “Steve—whirl me and whirl me and whirl me and whirl me!”
Steve answered by intensifying their closeness to the point that had they been naked, they would have had no choice but to spend the rest of their lives forged together into a single offering to Eros.
They pledged their hearts to the evening, and the evening showered them with gifts. They opened laughter; they unwrapped gentle whispers; they peeked into pleasure domes through keyholes of promise.
Finally, with their breath coming in gasps, with their hearts beating too fast for the music, with Ricki’s becoming a size too small for their excitement, enter, the last dance. The last dance any place in the world is always one of slow rapture. The last dance is a tradition that whispers wordlessly, “time for the mating.”
She rested her head on Steve’s shoulder. She smelled his cologne. She felt the taut muscles of his chest, his hand on the small of her back. Well, not to worry! We’ll be at breakfast and back on a plane soon. I hope I hold up that long. Or did she mean “hold off that long?”
They tumbled out of Ricki’s, and a cab whisked them to the top of Nob Hill. The hotel doorman smiled knowingly as he held the huge brass-rimmed door for them at the Mark Hopkins. The elevator flung them upward, keeping pace with their spirits.
The view of The City from the Top of the Mark was breathtaking! One at a time lights were winking out, allowing an awakening sun to yawn up long, dangerous shadows as it spread across the tips of the Embarcadero buildings.