Reed braced his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands, making the trio of tiny crescent moons on the ankle bracelet around his wrist tinkle merrily. "Oh, good Lord," he muttered, aghast and amused and amazed all at once. "I'm in love with her."
* * *
A delivery boy from a very exclusive Back Bay florist arrived at Zoe's apartment shortly after nine that morning bearing two frilly lavender orchids in a pale yellow porcelain pot. The delicate arching stems of the flowers were tied to natural bamboo stakes with wispy, sea-green raffia bows. The accompanying envelope was made of heavy cream-colored stock with the name of the florist discreetly embossed in gold in the upper right-hand corner.
The delivery boy had already been very generously tipped. "Dude slipped me a twenty to make sure you got them first thing this morning," he said cheerfully, waving away Zoe's crumpled greenbacks before he thumped on back down the stairs.
Zoe turned from the door with the pot of orchids in her hands, her expression somewhere between pleased and annoyed as she stared at Gina over the delicate blossoms. "He sent orchids! Ruffled lavender orchids in a yellow pot," she wailed. "Why couldn't it have been something mundane and ordinary, like roses? I would have expected roses. I could have sneered at roses. But no, he has to go and do something like this." She tenderly placed Reed's gift on the Chinese chest next to the bowl of marbles. "What kind of man sends a woman lavender orchids in a yellow pot?"
"Oh, I don't know." Gina lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "The considerate, thoughtful, imaginative kind?"
Zoe glared at her.
"Obviously, only an insensitive jerk would do such a dastardly thing," Gina amended. "Imagine." She tsked like a disapproving maiden aunt and shook her head. "Sending orchids in one of your favorite colors. How could he?"
Zoe had to struggle not to be amused. "Very funny," she said reprovingly.
"Thank you. I thought so, too." She glanced down at the little square envelope Zoe held clutched in her fingers. "Open it, and let's see what an insensitive jerk who sends orchids has to say."
Zoe glanced down at the envelope, but made no move to open it. "I'm afraid to," she admitted. "What if it's a brush-off? What if it's one of those last-night-was-great-and-I'll-call-you-sometime notes?" Her eyes widened as another thought, equally unsettling, occurred to her. "What if it isn't?"
"Only one way to find out," Gina said.
Zoe hesitated another moment, then took a deep, steadying breath and slid one long, copper-colored fingernail under the flap of the envelope. "Oh." She lifted one hand to her chest, as if to still the sudden fluttering of her heart. "Oh, my."
"What?" Gina demanded. "What does it say?"
Wordlessly, Zoe handed the card to her.
Gina's eyebrows practically disappeared under the spiky fringe of her bangs as she read the bold masculine scrawl. "Well." She blew out a breath. "It's definitely not a brush-off."
* * *
Reed sat at his desk, pretending to read through the mail M.E.'s temporary replacement had left on his black leather blotter, and wondered if maybe he should have gone with his first instinct and sent roses. There was a good reason, after all, why roses were the flower of choice for Valentine's Day, wedding anniversaries and other special occasions having to do with matters of the heart. Women liked roses. They were elegant, traditional and classic, and the message they conveyed was unequivocally, unabashedly, unmistakably romantic.
Exactly the message he wanted to send.
But as he'd stood there at the florist's cash register, with his gold card out and his mouth open to place his order for a dozen long-stemmed American Beauty roses, he'd realized that was what he'd always sent to every other woman he'd ever been involved with, and suddenly roses were too ordinary. Too predictable. Too calculated and shallow and insincere. Too cliché.
And that wasn't nearly good enough for Zoe.
She deserved something better. Something different. Something special and beautiful, as unusual and unique and exotic as she was. Something that conveyed sincerity as well as romance, love as well as lust. Something that would tell her exactly how he felt about her and the incredible night they'd spent together.
Which was a lot to ask of any flower.
Even exotic hothouse orchids.
Maybe especially exotic hothouse orchids. In the unspoken language of flowers, who knew what message orchids conveyed?
He sat there a moment, wishing now that he'd gone with his first instinct and sent roses, wondering just how much damage he'd done with the orchids. And that note. That note hadn't been the least bit romantic, either. "I woke up wanting you. Again." All that would accomplish was to make her think he wanted to take her to bed again. Which he did, of course. Desperately. But that wasn't all he wanted. Not by a long shot. No, he wanted … he wanted—
Everything, he realized. Everything she was. Everything she would be. He wanted to go to sleep with her beside him every night. To wake up with her every morning. He wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her cry, what she yearned for, what she dreamed of, what she feared. He wanted to … my God, he wanted to make babies with her! Little brown-eyed, red-haired babies. In all the time he'd been engaged to Kate Hightower he'd never once considered what any of their prospective offspring might have looked like, only that they would have the requisite two children at some time in the future. Now, just thinking of the beautiful curly headed babies he wanted to make with Zoe brought a funny kind of tickle to his throat.
But she was wary, he knew. Skittish. Probably not even thinking of happily ever after or making babies with him. And who could blame her? He'd insulted her at their first meeting, calling her a con artist and a hustler, all the while lusting after that luscious body. Then he'd hustled her into his bed without so much as a whispered endearment or a candlelight dinner to suggest his intentions were anything other than strictly carnal.
Was it any wonder she thought he was only interested in her body? Or that she was only interested in his?
Well, that was about to change. He was going to start over. He was going to woo her, slowly, the way he should have from the beginning, that's what he was going to do. He was going to buy her flowers and take her to dinner and…
* * *
"He sends you so many flowers just for doing business?" Mama cast a suspicious eye over the vase of yellow roses decorating Zoe's kitchen counter before turning the same gaze on Zoe herself. "Monkey business, I am thinking."
"Not monkey business, Mama." Zoe tweaked the purple satin bow around the neck of the vase to avoid looking at Mama while she told the lie. "We signed the contracts for New Moon yesterday afternoon. The flowers are a sort of, um, congratulations."
"A man sends a nice potted plant for congratulations. Roses are for seduction."
"Mama!" Zoe pretended indignation at the very suggestion. "Reed is not trying to seduce me."
"Because he already has, maybe? Hmm?"
Zoe shrugged and looked down at the flowers, refusing to answer that.
"I know you did not come home from signing that contract until this morning. Signora Umberto saw you get out of the taxi at the crack of dawn," Mama told her. "You were with him last night, yes? With this Reed Sullivan?"
Zoe lifted one shoulder in a sheepish little shrug. "Yes," she admitted.
"Ah, bambino." Mama reached out and cupped Zoe's cheek in her hand, turning her head so they were eye-to-eye. "You already know how I stand on such things so I will not waste my breath to tell you it is wrong, but I will say it is, perhaps, not wise, yes? He is a man of much experience, I think. And you have none at all. Or did not, before last night," she amended with a soft little smile. "You are like one of my own, my Zoe, as dear as my own blood, and I would not like to see you left sad and weeping over a broken heart."
"You don't have to worry, Mama. There's absolutely no chance of that." Zoe reached up and pressed the older woman's hand to her cheek for a moment, relishing the tenderness of the mothe
rly touch. "My heart is completely safe from Mr. Sullivan," she added, willing it to be true.
And terribly afraid it wasn't.
* * *
13
« ^
As she relaxed against the sumptuous leather upholstery in the back of Reed's black Jaguar, the sound of a meltingly romantic violin concerto drifting through the speakers behind her head, Zoe came to the realization that it was more than just sex that turned a woman's mind to mush. It was everything that went with it. At least, everything that went with it the way Reed Sullivan IV did it.
The lavender orchids and yellow roses had only been the first salvo. Violets had come next, a miniature nosegay of velvety purple flowers, done up with a ruff of delicate white lace. He'd pinned them to the lapel of her eggplant suit with a whimsical antique hat pin just before they entered the lobby of Le Meridien on their way to what she assumed was going to be a business lunch in the hotel's very popular restaurant.
They'd actually discussed business, too. In fact, they'd ended up cutting lunch short, forgoing a taste of what she'd always heard were the truly inspired desserts at the Julien because of the appointment Reed had made for her to look at warehouse space in the waterfront area near Four Point Channel. But somehow, despite their good intentions, they'd walked right past the exit to the parking garage and headed for the reception desk, where Reed used his gold card and his clout to secure one of the hotel's famous loft suites without benefit of a reservation. They'd fallen into each other's arms in the empty elevator, necking like a couple of frenzied teenagers as it ascended to their assigned floor, then made their way down the hall in a swelter of heat and anticipation. In their room, several glorious, passion-filled hours slipped by before either one of them remembered the Realtor who'd been going to show them the warehouse property. Reed had called and smoothed things over with the Realtor, and then, while Zoe showered, he ordered up champagne and lobster and a sampler tray of the desserts from room service. They ate their feast in bed, then feasted on each other, and didn't leave the room until checkout time the next day.
Friday had been the same. Flowers. Another superb meal at another fabulously romantic restaurant. Another missed appointment. Another night of unforgettable sex.
Zoe had never been happier or more miserable in her entire life.
She felt like a sex toy. A mindless bimbo at the mercy of her hormones.
She didn't like the feeling one little bit.
Especially when it was her own darn fault.
She was the one who'd initiated the relationship, after all. She'd provoked him, that day in Moira's parlor. She'd tracked him down at the rugby field. She'd asked him to kiss her. She'd asked him to go to bed with her, too, then boldly challenged him to that game of strip marbles when he'd hesitated. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
She'd been so sure she could handle it. So sure she wouldn't get all stupid and sappy and sentimental. So sure she wouldn't fall in love.
"Fool," she muttered, disgruntled and disgusted with herself. "Silly, stupid fool."
Eddie glanced into the rearview mirror at the sound of her voice. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing." Zoe shook her head at him. "Just thinking out loud," she said, wishing she could tell him to turn around and take her home, that she'd changed her mind about going to Moira Sullivan's cocktail party.
But she didn't. Couldn't. Precisely because it was Moira Sullivan's party, and it was being given in honor of New Moon. If nothing else, Zoe had an obligation to go, and she always met her obligations. Besides, she wanted to go. Of course she wanted to go. They were celebrating her success, after all, the expansion of New Moon, the thing she'd been working toward since her junior year in college. Only a silly, simpering, simple-minded idiot would even think of letting a … a tawdry sexual relationship get in the way of business, the way she'd been doing the last two days. Only a silly, simpering, simpleminded idiot would have let herself get involved in a tawdry sexual relationship with her financial advisor in the first place. Well, not tawdry, exactly—the last three days had been too romantic, too special, too beautiful to be called tawdry—but unwise, certainly. Yes, definitely unwise.
Well, it was over, she decided. Completely, utterly over. It had to be, because the next time he took her into his arms, the next time he made love to her as if it was all he ever wanted to do in the world, the next time she came apart beneath him, she wouldn't be able to keep from uttering those three foolish, fateful words that would ruin everything. I love you. He hadn't signed on for that. Wouldn't want it. Well, neither did she.
And that's why it had to be over.
It should have never started in the first place, of course, but that was water under the bridge now.
She would go to Moira's party, Zoe decided, and to the charity benefit for Mass General afterward, too. She'd meet new people, establish business contacts among the movers and shakers of Boston society. She'd even enjoy herself, by God. But afterward … well, afterward, she was going home. Alone. There would be no repeat of what had happened on the floor in the den of his Back Bay town house, she told herself as the sleek black Jag glided to a stop at the curb in front of Moira's Beacon Hill mansion. There would be no midnight rendezvous at some discreet hotel after the charity ball was over, she warned herself as the rear passenger door of the Jag swung open. There would absolutely be no—
"Zoe," Reed said as he extended his hand to her through the open door. "Welcome."
He was wearing black tie—understated, elegant and devastatingly sexy black tie—and smiling down at her as if she were the first, the only woman in the world. Zoe's mind went blank and she promptly forgot every reason she'd just given herself for ending their affair before the night was over.
"Reed," she murmured, her smile wide and soft and beatific as she reached up to place her hand in his.
He drew her out of the car, thinking as she stepped onto the sidewalk beside him that she was more beautiful each time he saw her. She was wearing a bronze-colored, 1930s-style, silk charmeuse evening gown that was nearly, but not quite, cloth-of-gold. It was slim fitting and bias cut so that it skimmed along every luscious curve and hollow of her voluptuous body, from the softly draped neckline of the bodice to the flowing floor-length hem. A rich, silk-lined velvet stole, the same color as the dress, was elegantly draped across her bare shoulders, and she'd gathered her flaming curls into a loose mass atop her head in an artless style that seemed just on the verge of tumbling down. Her only ornaments, aside from her own glorious coloring and spectacular figure, were the glittering crystal-and-topaz teardrops dangling from her ears. Even her hands, usually adorned with half a dozen narrow rings, were bare except for the subdued gleam of the copper-colored polish that slicked her nails.
She looked like a screen goddess from Hollywood's golden era and smelled, Reed thought, all but closing his eyes as he breathed her in, like somebody's' sweet old maiden aunt. It was incongruous and intriguing and intoxicating. He wanted to gather her up in his arms and kiss her until they were both breathless. He settled for brushing his lips across her fingertips.
"You're looking especially beautiful tonight," he murmured as he tacked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her across the sidewalk and up the steps to where Moira waited in the open front door.
Zoe looked up at him from under the sweep of her auburn lashes, about to tell him that he was looking especially beautiful, too, when Moira swooped down the remaining two steps and enfolded her in a warm Chanel-scented hug.
"Zoe, my dear. Welcome." She touched her softly lined cheek to Zoe's porcelain smooth one, then stepped back, taking both of Zoe's hands in hers, and surveyed her guest. "Oh, you look wonderful. Just like Rita Hayworth in her prime, only prettier."
"The dress is all right, then?" Zoe said, relieved.
She hadn't been a hundred percent sure it was quite the thing for a charity benefit at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum with Boston's uppercrust. After all, she'd found it in her fav
orite antique clothing store in the South End. But if Moira said it was all right…
"It's beautiful," Moira assured her. "You're beautiful. Isn't she, Reed?"
"Exquisite," Reed agreed, but neither Moira … nor Zoe … was really listening.
"I do hope it wasn't too much of an imposition, asking you to get here without benefit of Reed's escort," Moira said. "But he's my host tonight, you know, and I needed him here to help receive."
"It was no imposition at all," Zoe assured her as they ascended the remaining steps and entered the foyer. There was a bouquet of fresh flowers on the center table and lighted candles in the wall sconces. The low hum of conversation was just audible over the soft strains of classical music coming from the parlor. They paused there as Reed lifted the velvet stole from her shoulders and handed it to a uniformed maid to hang up.
"Now, then, let's go in and meet the rest of my guests, shall we?" Moira tucked her hand into the crook of Zoe's elbow and steered her across the marble foyer and through the double doors into the parlor, leaving Reed standing stock-still, staring at the smooth expanse of Zoe's nearly bare back.
There was a crackling fire in the Adam hearth in the parlor, and lighted candles in polished silver candlesticks on the mantel and the sideboard. Tastefully extravagant arrangements of white flowers—roses, freesias, bleeding hearts and baby's breath—were arranged around the room, delicately perfuming the air with their scent. Two more uniformed women circulated among the two dozen or so well-heeled guests, passing silver trays of canapés and flutes of champagne. The men all wore black tie. The women were hardly more colorful, or less elegant; there was a lot of tasteful black and pearls, the discreet twinkle of diamonds, an occasional flash of ivory satin or ice-blue silk, and one brave soul in mint green chiffon that revealed a modest hint of cleavage.
UNINHIBITED Page 19