He was looking forward to being with India. He wanted to see the face and figure that matched that velvet voice.
He wanted to be Harold Walters for just one evening, a worldly sophisticate with pots of money who knew nothing of potty training and temper tantrums and Max and Ruby, a man familiar with luxurious surroundings and gourmet food and beautiful women.
He just hoped he could make it through the evening without making a fatal error, like reaching over and cutting up India’s meat, or automatically wiping food stains from her mouth.
Chapter Seven
Maxine confided in Edna, and Edna, bless her generous heart, didn’t say a single word about breaking the rules by dating a customer. Instead she turned immediately to practical matters.
“I’ll come over early and babysit Graham for you, I’ll just unplug the business phone if he needs me. But what are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know.” Maxine had worried about that all day. Her wardrobe didn’t warrant the title. “I’m gonna have to look like India, I guess. But I don’t know what she’d wear out to dinner, she’s always in her underwear.”
Edna nodded. It was a major problem.
“I couldn’t concentrate today, just thinking about it,” Maxine admitted. "None of the things I have from before Graham fit me,” she said dolefully. “And since he was born, I’ve only bought practical stuff to wear around here." And most of it from Goodwill.
Edna frowned and thought about it. "I have plenty of expensive clothes from when I was married, but I doubt anything would be suitable. And my things wouldn’t fit you anyhow. Besides, they’re not sexy. John always said he preferred the classic look.” She rolled her eyes. "Classic Lolita, I guess he meant. Maybe we oughta ask Polly for advice? You haven’t got a whole lot of time.”
Judging from the conversation they’d already had about Harold, Maxine figured Polly was going to go ballistic when she found out about the date. But Maxine’s rising sense of panic over the clothing issue made her reluctantly agree, and Edna called immediately. She explained what was going on, and Polly insisted on talking to Maxine.
“You’re nuts, you know that?” Her tone was chastising. "This is a crazy, irresponsible thing you’re doing, and Edna and I oughta tie you up until the urge goes away.”
“I’ve made up my mind, I want to go out with him, Polly.”
“Then the only way I’ll help is if you let me come over and baby-sit Graham.”
Maxine grinned and shook her head. Polly had a weird way of bargaining. “Edna’s offered, but she’s working, so it might not be a bad idea. If you haven't got anything else planned?” Polly always had a date on Saturday night.
“Oh, drinks with some dork from work. I’ll cancel. He’s not a guy I want interested, believe me. What the hell are you gonna wear? You’ve got to look like India, right?”
“Right.” Maxine’s heart sank all over again. It was impossible to be India, except on the telephone. “Maybe I'll just cancel."
"Don’t jump the gun, I’ve got a few things that would look great on you. And you need your hair done anyway—you know that.”
Maxine did know. She also needed to lose another eight pounds in two days and see if there was a plastic surgeon who could restyle her lips. “Your clothes wouldn’t fit me; I’m way bigger than you."
“Haven’t you heard about Lycra, honey? I’ve got this one-piece undergarment that’ll work miracles, and a suit and a couple dresses that will fit, trust me. First thing in the morning, make an appointment to get your hair styled with somebody decent."
“I don't know a good stylist,” Maxine admitted in a small voice. “I always go to that chain place in the mall." And she hadn’t even been there for at least three months.
Polly groaned. "God spare me. I’ll make you an emergency appointment with the guy who does my hair. He owes me a favor, I did a prenup freebie for him and his partner. I’ll drive you over and take care of Graham while Terry works on you. And then we're gonna buy you a pair of shoes. You need something outrageously high with straps. New underwear, too. Thong panties.”
“Thong panties?” Maxine was really alarmed. "But I’m not going to—”
"Damned straight you’re not. They’re for you, not him. They’ll make you feel sexy.”
Maxine had looked at them in Victoria’s Secret and thought they’d make her feel squirmy. But Polly knew about these things.
“Okay.” There must be some instruction book that she’d never seen, Maxine decided, that gave all the directions for this stuff. Then she remembered what else Polly had said.
"Shoes with high heels? Maybe that’s not such a good idea. What if he’s short?”
“Didn’t you ask how tall he was?”
“He told me six-two, but they always lie about it.”
Maxine was getting more and more nervous about this whole thing, but there was also a part of her that was excited. She hadn’t been out with anyone since Ricky, and in spite of the butterflies in her gut, she wanted to do this. She wanted to do it right. She wanted to meet Harold. She wanted, just for one evening, to sit across from a man and smile and drink wine and talk about something other than his erection.
By seven on Saturday, however, she wasn’t so sure.
There was a feeling of excitement in the house. Edna had come early to take over the business calls, and Polly had arrived just past noon with two enormous suitcases and a makeup case that was bigger than Graham’s diaper bag.
She’d given Maxine a manicure and then insisted she try on every last item in the suitcases.
“I think this ice-blue suit with the longer jacket is the one that does the most for you," Polly finally declared, patting and tugging it into place. "What do ya think, Edna?”
“She looks beautiful.” Edna had said exactly that about everything Maxine had tried on. Edna was loyal, Maxine concluded, but unreliable when it came to decisions about wardrobe.
“Your hair’s good,” Polly conceded, giving it an assessing glance.
Terry had gone into raptures over the color, and declared that Maxine’s long hair suited her, but not the way it was. With scissors and a drier and something he called “product," plus a dose of utter genius, he’d somehow turned Maxine's hair into a jumble of sexy, tousled curls that dipped and swirled around her ears and chin. It felt light and natural, and he’d shown her how to use her fingers when her hair was wet to get the right effect. She kept sneaking looks in every mirror she passed.
If only getting dressed were as easy.
“This skirt’s too tight at the waist,” Maxine complained. She felt like a stuffed sausage in the Lycra tube that Polly had ordered her to wear in lieu of a slip. “It's fastened right now, but if I eat anything, it’s gonna burst.” She sucked in her belly a little more. “But I'm way too nervous to eat anyhow, so maybe it’ll be okay.”
“Don’t be crazy. Order everything your heart desires, he’s paying the bill,” Polly said. “Just don’t fasten the button. Here, loop this elastic band through the buttonhole and hook it like this.” Polly demonstrated, and then gave Maxine a narrow-eyed stare. “It doesn’t look tight because the jacket skims down right over your hips.”
"Yeah, it almost covers the hem of the skirt.” Maxine frowned down at the shocking spectacle of her legs, bared to mid thigh by the scrap of silky fabric. “You don’t think the skirt’s a little short, Polly? And these heels too high?”
Maxine felt naked in spite of the panty hose she was wearing. And she hadn’t worn heels for so long she was sure she’d fall on her face when she tried to walk in these.
“Look, honey, you’ve got killer legs; use ’em. And the portrait neckline looks lovely.”
Edna murmured agreement. “I wish I had that long neck and firm jaw line.”
"To say nothing of cleavage. God, it never dawned on me that you were hiding that pair under those baggy sweatshirts you wear. That underwire bra was worth every penny,” Polly purred.
Maxine fingered the
fragile gold chains Polly had fastened around her throat. "I hope I don’t lose these.”
“So you lose ’em. They’re not heirlooms or anything. I can’t even remember which guy gave ’em to me. Now, perfume. This is the stuff with the pheromones in it. Might as well see if they work for you the way they do for me."
Polly dabbed scent liberally behind Maxine’s ears, on her upper lip, at the base of her throat, on her wrists. “That oughta do the trick.”
She scooped Graham up in her arms and gave Maxine one last critical perusal. "It's not raining, so you don’t need a coat. Just loop this cashmere shawl over your shoulders. Here, don’t forget your handbag.”
It was Edna’s handbag, actually, black, made of eel skin.
"There, you look like a million bucks,” Polly declared. "You’ve got Edna’s car keys?"
Edna had insisted that Maxine take her car as well as her purse. Maxine’s battered and rusty old green Toyota didn’t have the right image, and if she took a cab, there could be awkward suggestions that Harold drive her home.
"Wave bye-bye to Mommy, punkin, then we’ll go give you a nice bath and Auntie Polly will feed you your bottle.” Polly’s tone was proprietary.
Maxine had sort of hoped that her son might scream when she left, but instead he gave her a lackadaisical wave and buried his nose contentedly in Polly’s neck.
So much for masculine loyalty, Maxine thought sourly as she tottered out to Edna's clean and shining little car. All she could hope for now was that she’d be able to hold her stomach in for the duration of the evening.
The room key was safely in his jacket pocket, and Harry’s heart was hammering. He’d told India he’d be wearing a gray sports jacket and a white shirt, waiting for her in the lobby of the hotel. He could have skipped the fashion plug and just said he was Occidental; a huge group of Asian tourists were checking in, and Harry stood out in the crowd, head and shoulders above them, in fact.
He’d been peering over their dark heads for fifteen minutes now, watching the revolving doors, looking for someone with auburn hair— anyone with auburn hair.
"Harold?"
The sultry voice behind him was unmistakable, and he whirled around. He’d overlooked the fact that she might come up in the elevator from the parking level.
“India?” His voice felt as if it were coming from somewhere deep in his gut instead of his throat. He’d tried to imagine what she would look like, and now he was trying not to gape.
He’d never have guessed freckles, was his first idiotic reaction, or a face that was round and county-girl healthy. She had a strong, straight nose under the freckles, delicately flushed cheeks, and amazing grass-green eyes, intelligent eyes, framed by thick dark lashes. She also had the sexiest mouth he’d seen off of a television screen, wide and full-lipped and tremulous.
She was doing her best to smile, but it wasn’t quite working. She looked decidedly nervous, which immediately made him feel more confident.
Her hair, rich and thick and the color of mahogany had the bedroom-tousled look that he’d noticed attractive women wearing lately. Strands of it curled around her jaw and clung to the soft navy shawl draped around her shoulders.
She looked classy. She smelled delicious. And he knew all too well how she sounded.
“India. India, I’m so glad to meet you. In person, I mean.” He held out a hand and she hesitated and then reached out and took his fingers, giving them a slight squeeze before pulling her hand away.
He’d imagined her tall and languorous, bone slender, sensually arrogant, with chiseled features and mysterious eyes and a one-sided smile. He’d thought she’d be wearing leopard skin, maybe.
She wasn’t tall at all. She was wearing heels, but without them he’d guess her to be five-six, maybe five-seven. And she wasn’t bone slender. She wasn’t heavy either, not at all. Voluptuous was the word that came to mind. Zaftig. Under the shawl she had on something slippery and blue and breathtakingly short, and he didn’t want to get caught staring at her legs or examining what was visible of her marvelous boobs, so with extreme self-discipline he gazed straight into those keen green eyes and said, "The dining room is along this way. Are you hungry?”
Great opener, Watson. He was obviously far too accustomed to making dinner conversation with a three-year-old.
She gave him another slight, quizzical smile and nodded. “I am, yes.”
"Good. Great. So am I, starving.” Jesus, now he sounded like a fast-food commercial. He guided her out of the crowded lobby and past the wine bar, where the weekend crowd stood three deep to sample the restaurant’s famous cellar.
She stumbled once, and he reached an arm to steady her, but released her again as they arrived at the entrance to the restaurant.
There were two couples ahead of them, and as they waited, Harry couldn’t, to save his soul, think of anything to say. She was gazing around, and he sneaked the opportunity to glance at her legs.
Damn, they were spectacular: narrow ankles, shapely calves, gorgeous knees, thighs that. . . It must be her perfume that was making him think of hot, musky sex.
The maitre d’ greeted them at last.
Harry gave his name, mindful that he’d used Walters instead of Watson. They were led to a secluded table by the window, and an attentive waiter lit the candle and asked if they wanted a drink.
“India? What would you like?" He’d like to skip the damned dinner and drag her upstairs to the room he’d rented. He’d like to strip her naked and . . .
He’d been without a woman for too long. He should have taken a double dose of saltpeter before leaving home.
Her smell was making him crazy. What the hell was the matter with him? He had a massive erection, and he hadn't been around her longer than ten minutes, for cripes’ sake. Thank God they were sitting down.
“Nothing just now, thank you.” Maxine shook her head.
“Wine, perhaps?” Harry asked. “White, red?” She looked undecided. “White, please.” Harry glanced at the wine list and ordered, thankful that he’d written some of the press releases for the place and knew which vintages were highly recommended.
"It’s a nice evening,” Harry began, feeling like a dork. A dork with a very persistent hard-on. "The sunset on English Bay was spectacular tonight. Did you see it?”
The only reason he had was because Mrs. Campanato had arrived forty minutes early, and Harry was forced to either vacate the house or listen to one of her lectures on child rearing. She was fixated on the fact that Sadie didn’t have enough contact with other kids, and she went on about it until Harry was dizzy. It seemed her daughter, Rosalie, ran something called Motoring Munchkins at the community center, not ten minutes' drive from Harry’s door.
Mrs. Campanato was on a mission to get Sadie enrolled, and Harry suspected it had more to do with Rosalie's recent divorce than with Sadie’s social development.
Mrs. Campanato started in again the minute she came through the door, so he left early and spent the time sitting in his car in an English Bay parking lot, watching the sun disappear into the ocean.
“I missed the sunset, but the sky was still beautiful when I got to the hotel," she replied.
He was having a tough time connecting the voice from the telephone, with the demure and unbearably sensual flesh-and-blood lady across from him.
It was a tough connection to make; if he’d met her under other circumstances, not knowing what she did for a living, he’d have guessed teaching or maybe nursing. She had the open countenance and healthy looks that should go with those jobs.
The waiter brought the wine. Harry gave it his stamp of approval, and when they each had some in a fragile glass, he lifted his in a toast.
"To friendship,” he said, “and an enjoyable evening.”
She smiled at him and sipped.
He watched her lips, marveled at the soft roundness of her face, and at last met her eyes. She was watching him.
"You’re beautiful, India." He hadn’t planned to say
it; it just spontaneously came out, and to his amazement she blushed and ducked her head.
“Thank you.” She looked at him and for the first time he saw a hint of flirtatiousness. “You’re not bad yourself, Harold.”
Her sexy voice made the compliment erotic, and, delighted, he laughed. “Thanks.” Her words made the trip to the men’s stylist and the new shirt worthwhile. And the sample of men’s cologne that had come in the mail must be potent. “And now that we’ve got a mutual admiration society going for us, we can both relax and have fun, okay?”
“Okay.” She sipped her wine again, and he saw a dimple come and go in her right cheek. “Are you about to go out of town again on business, Harold?”
Was he? He was flustered. He tried to remember the last lie he’d told her about his mythical business and couldn’t.
“It depends," he temporized. “There are a couple of deals pending. I may have to go and complete them.”
“Exactly what kind of business are you in?” He wished to hell he knew. He understood that she was just trying her best to make conversation. She had no idea that she was making him miserably uncomfortable.
“Mergers,” he lied, wondering if his nose was growing the way his penis had a moment before. “I’m a freelance adviser, sort of a peacemaker. I go in when two companies merge and I make the situation as smooth and painless as possible.” He hadn’t realized how rotten it was going to make him feel, looking across at her and outright lying to her. She had the kind of face that really shouldn’t be lied to, damn it.
“Harry, you old son of a gun, how are you anyway?"
The jovial voice, the pudgy hand that landed on his shoulder, made Harry’s stomach clench and his heart skip a beat.
"I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, I was over at the wine bar and I thought I’d come and say hello.”
God help him, the game was up. His cover was about to be blown, and he’d be lucky if she’d ever speak to him again
ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild) Page 6