by Patti Berg
As if he’d heard her thoughts, he stared at her with his sun-bleached brows knit together. “I haven’t got all day. Are you going to stand in the hall or come in?”
“I’m not going to do either,” Sam said, the words slipping over the end of her tongue before she could catch them.
“You’re what?”
“You heard me.” Sam’s better judgment had just flown down the hallway and caught the express elevator out of the hotel.
She pushed the garment bag from her shoulder and let it slide to the floor. Already today she’d kissed her much-needed job good-bye and now she was saying so long to this tip.
Stalking toward her, Jack Remington stopped mere inches away. He was tall. Real tall, but she was no slouch herself and in four-inch killer heels, she came close to staring straight into his heated blue eyes.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.
“Leaving.” She looked down at the garment bag lying in a heap between them. “That’s your tux, Mr. Remington. If it doesn’t fit, go naked.”
She didn’t bother waiting for a response. She just turned, headed back to the elevator, and stabbed two fingertips at the down arrow, hitting instead the rock-solid hand that had just slid over the button.
“I was led to believe that you’d alter the tux if it didn’t fit,” he said.
“And I was led to believe that rich people have manners.”
He raised an eyebrow. “My apologies.”
As if his curt repentance was enough, Jack Remington grabbed the sewing machine from her hand and strode back to his suite, leaving Sam standing at the elevator, watching his back.
A nice back, she had to admit. There was a strong possibility that his body—not to mention his good looks—were the only nice things about him. Still…she studied him. She’d never been keen on men who dressed like they belonged onstage at the Grand Ole Opry, but she admired the way his white cowboy shirt stretched tightly across wide shoulders. His slacks were charcoal, not too tight across the butt, not too loose. In fact, they were impeccably tailored, as if she’d done the fitting herself. He wore cowboy boots. Not the hundred-dollar variety with cow dung crusted on the soles, but a pair that must have cost a good thousand or more, and it looked as if he’d just left the hotel’s shoeshine stand because the black leather glimmered when he walked.
For all his riches, Jack Remington wasn’t wearing Gianfranco Ferre or Messori, not even tropical menswear like some others she’d seen at the Breakers. In fact, Jack Remington didn’t look like he belonged in this hotel any more than she did.
“Are you coming?” he asked bluntly.
She knew she should keep her lips buttoned, but she looked into his frowning blue eyes and smiled her sweetest, most innocent smile. “Say please.”
His eyebrow rose again, then he swept the garment bag up from the floor and waited silently for her beside the door. She strolled back to the room, thinking about asking him again to say please, then decided that she’d pushed about as far as she could at the moment. She might have salvaged her tip. No need to court trouble again.
Besides, she could push confidence and bravado just so far.
The inside of the main room was…well, it was beyond compare. The apartment she’d rented in West Hollywood hadn’t been much bigger than this living room, and it definitely hadn’t been as well put together.
Scattered about the room were lavish arrangements of roses, lilies, and orchids, and Sam could detect the scent of gardenia coming from somewhere in the suite. She’d never seen anything so luxurious, but she wasn’t going to let Mr. Remington think she was impressed.
When she heard the door close behind her, she did a slow turn to inspect the room, then looked at the cowboy millionaire and pretended she had as much right to be demanding as he did. She pointed to the farside of the room. “That desk over there will be perfect for the sewing machine.”
Obviously, he hadn’t heard her, because an arm that felt like granite brushed against her shoulder as he walked into the connecting room. “I prefer the bedroom.”
“The lighting’s perfect out here. I think—”
“I think we’ll use the bedroom,” he said, and Sam didn’t bother to argue as she followed him.
He tossed the garment bag on the bed and set the sewing machine on the vanity near one of the windows. “I’m in a hurry.” He looked again at his watch. “I’ve got an engagement party in two hours, and I can’t be late.”
“Yours?”
“My what?”
“Your engagement party?”
He laughed, and the first hint of a smile touched his lips. “No,” he said flatly. “My sister’s.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Sam said, unzipping the bag. “I read all about her and the polo player. What’s his name?”
“Peter Leighton.”
Ice could have formed on his words, and Sam decided to steer away from the subject of Australian polo players getting engaged to Palm Beach socialites, and said the first thing that came to mind. “I would have thought someone like you would already own a tuxedo.”
Jack Remington raised the lid on a humidor and pulled out a cigar. He rolled it just beneath his nose, cut off the tip, then stuck it in his mouth while she took a pair of highly polished black shoes and all the pieces to the tux out of the bag.
Fire shot out of the silver lighter in his hand, and she could hear it sizzle as he held it close to the cigar and puffed. She could see his eyes studying her through the swirling smoke. “Are you always so inquisitive?” he asked.
“When the situation warrants it, I suppose.” She lifted the trousers from the bed and slid open the zipper. “So, why don’t you tell me what happened to your tux?”
“Why don’t we just fit the one you brought?”
“I can listen and work at the same time.”
“An admirable trait.”
“Quite. Now take off your clothes.”
Jack had never encountered a woman like the redhead. She wasn’t just inquisitive, she was bossy, too. It was a rare occasion when he gave in to a woman, but he didn’t have time to argue. There wasn’t time to send her from the room while he changed, wasn’t time to find a tailor who concentrated more on the clothes than on him or worked instead of talked.
And, Jack decided, even if he found a tailor with those qualifications, he’d never find one as easy on the eye.
Sitting in an armchair, he leaned over to remove his boots. Seconds later a pair of sky-high heels came into view, along with ten toes that seemed to tap to unheard music. He looked up, following the long length of her legs. She reached out and for a moment he thought she was going to help him pull off his boots. Instead, she plucked the hand-rolled Montecristo from his lips.
“This is in the way, Mr. Remington.” She held the cigar gingerly between the tips of her index finger and thumb. “I can’t do my job with you puffing nonstop, so I’ll just stick it in the ashtray for safekeeping.”
She walked across the room, her hips swaying provocatively. On some other woman the action might have seemed forced, but a natural seductiveness emanated from the redhead. She could probably bewitch him if he were in any mood to be seduced.
But he wasn’t. Not at the moment, at least. Arabella Fleming had seduced him once with an exquisite smile and with hands that slid over his body like those of a highly skilled masseuse. She was smart, sexy, and a month ago he thought she’d be the perfect wife, but she’d dumped him over the phone—he looked at his watch—twenty-two minutes ago. They were never, ever going to get back together, a fact Arabella had made perfectly clear.
That meant he could look at the redhead all he wanted.
She set the Montecristo in the ashtray and turned. Her mass of flaming curls spun about her, almost in slow motion. She was one hell of a good-looking specimen.
He tossed one boot then another across the room, as the redhead moved toward him. He stood, unbuttoned his trousers, and slid open the zipper while the woman apprai
sed his entire body in much the same way he would a prizewinning stallion. The only difference: her face didn’t show any emotion. No pleasure. No excitement. No nothing!
“I thought you were in a hurry,” she said, standing in front of him with her arms folded under sumptuous breasts. “We’ll be here all night if you don’t take off your clothes.”
He started to shove down the trousers. Damn! He was wearing the black-silk thong Arabella had sent him a week ago and made him promise to wear when they flew to Florida. Her note tucked into the gift box had said something about fooling around at fifty-one thousand feet, with the other passengers just a few feet away from the action. He hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d put the damned thing on this morning.
“Is there a problem?” the redhead asked.
Jack refocused his thoughts on her inquisitive brown eyes. “No.”
“Well, there’s no need to be modest. I may be a woman, but I’m also the finest tailor you’ll find in Palm Beach. I’ve seen it all,” she said, moving closer. Long, slender fingers captured the top button on his shirt and worked their way down, releasing each one as if she’d unbuttoned men’s shirts a million times before. He could smell the dizzying scent of her perfume, could almost feel the heat of her skin, and taste the sweetness of the bright red lipstick on her mouth.
“You know,” she said softly, “Mr. Antonio had a customer once who wanted me to personally tailor his underwear.” She peeled the shirt away from his body, her eyes casually skimming his chest and arms. “He had this purple silk thong that just didn’t fit right. I made a little tuck here, a little tuck there, and voilà! it was perfect. Even his boyfriend approved.”
“I’m not the least interested in having my underwear tailored,” Jack said, his hand still positioned over his zipper.
“It doesn’t look like you want these trousers tailored either. Funny thing about tailoring, you can’t do it unless your client is willing to put on the item you’re planning to alter.”
Her eyes trailed to his fingers, then back again to his face. “Would you like me to leave the room while you change?”
He’d never been afraid of anything in his life, and he wasn’t about to turn coward in front of the redhead. He dropped his slacks and stood in front of her, all six feet four inches, 230 pounds of him, clad only in a thong.
The woman had the nerve to put a thoughtful finger over her lips and aim her eyes directly at the damned black silk. “You know, Mr. Remington, you look awfully good in that thong but, personally, I prefer boxers.”
“Have you ever worn a thong?”
“Once or twice. I’m not crazy about the feel. But, we all have our own personal tastes.”
She walked away, as if she’d lost all interest in the discussion and his body, and lifted the trousers from the bed. Turning them inside out, she dangled them in front of her.
Jack snatched the slacks from her hands. “I don’t like wearing a tux any more than I like wearing a thong,” he announced. “But since the airline seems to have lost all my luggage, since you were the only tailor the concierge was able to find on a Friday night, and since I’m in a hurry, could you just get this damn thing fitted so I can get to my sister’s engagement party?”
A smile formed on a pair of picture-perfect lips as he slid into the trousers, struggled with the wrong-side-out zipper, and finally fastened the button.
“Are you a big tipper, Mr. Remington?”
“Only when I’m pleased with the service.”
“You’ll be pleased. I’m sure of it.”
She went to work immediately, running her fingers around his waistband, over his hips, down the outside of each leg, his thighs and calves. “You could have modeled for these trousers,” she said. “They’re almost a perfect fit.”
“Good. Then why don’t we move on to the jacket?”
“All in good time. I need to check a few spots on the trousers.” She placed one hand close to his crotch, and he gritted his teeth, fighting the natural instincts of his body. Never again would he allow a woman tailor to alter his clothes.
“There’s a little problem with the fit here, Mr. Remington.”
“Problem? What kind of problem?”
“It’s not that big a problem.” Her smile widened as she looked up at him through dark, thick lashes. “I just need to know which side you dress on.”
The way she’d been running her hand over his body, she should have known by now. “The left.”
“That’s what I thought, but it never hurts to double check.” She concentrated again on his zipper, and he tilted his chin and stared at wavy hair on top her head. “I have to make a few small adjustments. Won’t take long.” She pulled a pin from the black-velvet cushion fastened around her wrist.
She aimed the sharp steel head straight at his…
“Be careful with that.”
“Relax. I know perfectly well what I’m doing.”
Relax? Hell!
“You know, Mr. Remington—”
“Jack! Just call me Jack, will you?”
“So, Jack, how come a guy with all your money took a commercial flight from…Where is it you’re from?”
“Wyoming.”
“That’s right. I’ve read about your ranch…and you. Anyway, I would have thought a millionaire like you would have his own Concorde or Lear.”
“I own horses and cows, not jets.”
“Too bad. If you’d flown here in your own plane, you wouldn’t have lost your tux, and you wouldn’t have been stuck here with me.”
“As I said, this day hasn’t gone according to—damn it!”
“I’m sorry, Jack.” She looked up at him with a worried smile that he knew, without a doubt, was false. “It was just one little prick. I promise it won’t happen again.”
He glared at her. Her eyes had refocused on the straight pins she was jabbing into his pants, and she was trying like hell not to laugh.
Little prick? Ha!
He shook his head as he studied the woman kneeling in front of him. She had a wildness about her. A fiery exuberance that came damn close to making him smile, and it had been a hell of a long time since mere conversation with a woman had made him smile.
two
If the tailor had been a man instead of a pretty woman, Jack might have slipped into the terry-cloth robe the hotel provided. Instead, he’d completely redressed, found a comfortable place in the bedroom, and pored over a stack of restaurant-related papers.
The redhead and the way she hummed as she worked distracted him. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves on his shirt as his eyes drifted from the contract in his lap to the toes of her left foot, which kept perfect time with her tune. In contrast, her right foot pressed against the lever on the floor, making the needle thrum as it moved up and down, in and out of the trousers she guided through her sewing machine.
Damn if there wasn’t something intensely erotic about what she was doing.
He leaned back on the bedroom sofa, forgetting the legalese before him. Lifting his cigar from the ashtray, he clenched it between his teeth, savoring the taste, and watched her through the pungent smoke. She’d removed her coat nearly half an hour ago and settled down at the table to sew. He’d watched her long, slender fingers nimbly work with the fabric, plucking out old thread, snipping the material with small silver scissors, and adjusting seams.
Arabella had once tossed a white cashmere sweater into the trash because a button had popped off. “I don’t have the faintest idea how to sew,” she’d told him. He’d offered to sew it on for her; she’d asked him to buy her a new one instead. Had that incident been the start of their relationship’s demise? he wondered, or had they been doomed from the start?
He looked back at the contract, refocusing on the paragraph he’d read two or three times before. Arabella would have devoured the legal document in minutes. She would have offered opinions, made suggestions, and rewritten language she didn’t find quite right. They would have
talked for hours about mergers and acquisitions, the stock market, and the fiscal aspects of his ranch and restaurant chain. Business conversation came easy, their sex life was great, and he’d put a ring on her finger because he thought she’d be the perfect partner.
Somehow he’d forgotten about the personal side, their likes and dislikes. He’d forgotten all about love.
He laughed at his oversight.
The redhead glanced up from her sewing and tilted her head toward him. She swept a curl behind her ear, smiled softly, and when he smiled in return, she went back to work.
He doubted the tailor would ever throw away a cashmere sweater. In fact, he found himself wondering if she’d ever owned one. He tried picturing her in pearls, a classy business suit, and black pumps, her wild hair pulled back in a tight bun, but that was Arabella’s style. He could more easily picture the redhead in blue jeans, which was the way he’d wanted to see Arabella. But ranch living wasn’t her style.
Arabella loved the opera and ballet, which he despised. She wanted to take vacations on the Costa del Sol or the Riviera; he preferred a tent in the mountains. He wanted two or three children; her work was the only baby she wanted to nurture. And even though she’d grown up on her father’s sprawling Colorado ranch, she loved the city and had no intention of living or even visiting the Wyoming outback.
Never again would he ask a woman to marry him without being damn sure that she’d fit in at the ranch. Hell, he didn’t want to think about marriage again. A sense of relief had washed over him when Arabella had ended their relationship. Right now, he planned to take full advantage of being a free man.
And the woman who interested him most was sitting in his bedroom. He had an eye for beautiful women—and this one was gorgeous, from her toenails—painted fire-engine red—to the long flaming hair that hung halfway down her back in a hundred springing corkscrews.
She was tall, slender, and had breasts that were every man’s fantasy come to life.