by Nancy Warren
The next time they got naked, he decided, he’d be the one calling the shots. And her leaving right after doing the deed was not going to happen.
7
THERE WAS SHOPPING, and there was shopping.
There was Richard Gere taking Julia Roberts down Rodeo Drive and giving her carte blanche on his credit card in Pretty Woman.
That was romantic, sexy, and obviously the kind of shopping Peter had in mind—though she certainly wasn’t interested in using his card. She had plenty of her own.
Then there was the kind of shopping every man she’d ever known—including Peter—loathed.
Kit allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she glanced over the list she’d made.
Peter’s punishment was about to begin.
He hadn’t said anything about breakfast and she hadn’t pried. After too few hours of sleep, she’d made do with a cup of coffee and a muffin in her office while she confirmed everything for the day.
Then she ran home to her own place for some clothes. Instead of picking him up in his room—which, after last night, was probably a bad idea—she called him from the lobby and had him meet her there.
He arrived in some kind of tweedy wool pants and a casual jacket. Totally Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. She wore jeans, a soft pink wrap-around shirt and the comfiest sneakers she owned.
When he walked toward her, her mind flashed to the night before when he’d first entered her body and she’d wanted to prove she could enjoy him for sex without the dangerous tangle of emotions. For about five seconds, she’d fooled herself it could be done. Then she’d wanted to weep. Or hit him. Both, maybe.
But the first time was bound to involve painful recollections, she reminded herself. He was still sexy and attractive to her. He’d won his fantasy weekend and she intended that he would have exactly that.
If she got some very nice sex out of the bargain, what was so terrible about that?
And if she made him suffer a teensy bit, well, she was only human.
“You really want to go shopping?” she asked, feeling suddenly guilty and giving him a last chance to back out.
“Absolutely,” he said, not fooling her for a second.
“Great. Do you have anything you need to get?”
“Not really.”
“Because I do.” She pulled out a list that should have made him run screaming. “We could use the hotel limo if you want, but I thought it might be more fun to walk.”
“Sure.”
“The limo will pick us up and take us for lunch.”
“We’re going to Central Park in a limo?” Peter’s steps faltered as they hadn’t when he saw her long shopping list.
“That’s right. You’ll feel like a movie star or an oil sheikh.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbled. But since they were passing out of the hotel as he spoke, she pretended she hadn’t heard him over the sudden noise of traffic.
“Thanks, Carl,” she said to today’s cute doorman. She was certain they had the cutest doormen in all Manhattan.
“You’re welcome, Kit. Can I call your limo?” He lifted his silver whistle as he spoke, but she shook her head. “We’re going to walk.”
“Okay. You have a nice day.”
While they walked, she consulted her list. “I need to get a gift for my mother’s birthday, I need some new place mats for my apartment, and I need a shower gift for Beck Desmond and May.”
“Beck Desmond, the writer?”
“Yes. He’s getting married to May, who came here as a guest and now does the flowers.”
“Cool.”
Peter leaned over her shoulder and she heard him chuckle.
“What?”
“Your list is in different colors.”
“I know it’s—”
“Don’t tell me. I can guess,” he said, his voice warm and filled with gentle humor. “You love your mom, so she got pink. Place mats are boring, so you wrote that in blue pen. I’m guessing you’re excited about the wedding shower, because that’s in purple.”
She tucked the list away, realizing that Peter knew her far too well. This was a dangerous game she was playing. Sure, she was over him and the past was the past, but if he broke her heart again she didn’t think she’d recover.
So they’d had some laughs, enjoyed some nice sex last night. It didn’t mean she had to let herself get gushy over him. In trying to prove to everyone, especially Peter, that she was over him, she’d better make sure she stayed that way.
She kept the pace brisk. With the crowds and the noise of traffic, street vendors hawking their wares, sirens and cell phones, there wasn’t much chance of conversation.
She swept through the revolving doors of Bloomingdale’s with Peter gamely in pursuit. She’d been so busy making sure Peter got bored that she hadn’t considered how weird it would be to shop for a bridal shower gift with a man she’d almost married.
Not a good idea. Maybe she’d leave the shower gift for later when she was on her own.
Place mats. Also on her list. But even buying something for her apartment with Peter was too intimate. Putting her food on place mats that he’d helped pick out? Scratch place mats off her list.
That left a gift for her mother.
“You know,” she said, hesitating, “I think I’ll get my mother something from the museum gift shop.”
“Okay. But what about all that other stuff on your list?”
“Maybe later.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
So she called the limo and they were whisked to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As she went into one of her favorite places on Earth, she wondered why it had been so long since she’d been here.
“What’s the matter?” Peter asked.
“Maybe I need to stop working so much. I haven’t been here in almost a year. One of the reasons I moved to Manhattan was so I could go to Broadway and the Met and do all the things tourists dream of.”
“So what happened?”
“I turned into a New Yorker. I never have time for any of that stuff anymore.” She sighed. “It’s a tragedy.”
“Well, today you get to combine business and pleasure. What’s not great about that?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “How long have I got?”
“As long as you want.”
She shook her head slowly. “You’re not fooling me. How long until your feet start to hurt, you sit on the benches and play with your cell phone, and generally act like a pain in the ass?”
He gazed around the Great Hall that was currently filled with tourists and way too many parents who didn’t believe in discipline. “An hour, tops.”
Deciding not to take Piper’s advice and drag him through the costumes galleries or worse, textiles, she tried to think what he’d most enjoy. “French Impressionists?” She raised her brows.
He looked marginally relieved. “Why not?”
Being a Saturday, the place was fairly crowded, but she sort of liked the ebb and flow of people. She didn’t protest when Peter took her hand in his. He seemed happy to stop where she stopped, gaze at whatever caught her fancy. As they wandered around the second-floor galleries that displayed the Met’s renowned collection of French and European paintings.
“She reminds me of you,” he said after they went down the stairs to check out the modern-art galleries.
She followed his gaze. “The Modigliani, you mean?”
“Yes. The painting is called—” he stopped to read the sign “—Reclining Nude.”
“I don’t look a bit like her. She has that elongated face.”
“Of course you don’t look like her. But the pose, and the way she’s so relaxed in her body, that’s what you were like last night when you lay on that big bed with your arms over your head like that, and your head turned to look at me.” He leaned closer. “I didn’t know the Met was going to make me horny,” he whispered.
She shook her head. “You are such a connoisseur of art.”
“Hey,” he said with a grin, “I know what I like.”
“Let’s go to the gift shop and get something for my mother.”
“Okay. I wonder if they have posters of the Modigliani. My apartment’s pretty bare.”
“As a souvenir to remember this weekend?” she teased.
He stared at her and his look was so intimate she caught her breath. “I won’t need any souvenirs to remember this weekend,” he said. “And I’ll never forget last night.”
Her pulse jumped in a combination of unwilling response and alarm. “Peter, I—”
“So, how is your mom?” he asked, and she was glad he’d cut her off since she didn’t know what to say.
“She’s fine. Good.”
“Are they still living in the same place?”
“Oh, yes.”
When they got to the gift shop, Peter helped her choose a pair of silver-and-black onyx Parisian Art Deco earrings for her mother. That done, she realized it was time for lunch if they were going to stick to their schedule.
She loved having the limo at her disposal. The traffic nightmare that was New York was something she would never become accustomed to. She loved being chauffeured. And since she was on legitimate Hush business, she could indulge without feeling guilty.
“We’re lucky it’s still warm enough to picnic,” she said as they sank back into the cushioned leather seats for the very short ride down Fifth Avenue and along East 72nd St. to the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park where the driver would let them out. From there, it was only a five-minute walk to Strawberry Fields, the perfect spot for a picnic.
“I was kind of hoping it would rain.”
“You were?”
“Yes. Then we could have moved the picnic indoors.”
“Where exactly, indoors?”
“My suite.”
“Do you ever think of anything but sex?”
“Not this weekend,” he said, and leaning forward kissed her softly.
When they reached the terrace, Big Al, the limo driver, unloaded a wicker picnic basket and a red plaid blanket from the trunk. When he would have carried it for them, Peter balked and insisted on taking over from there.
“We’ll call you when we’re done, Al. Thanks,” Kit said as Peter took the basket.
“I was thinking of deli sandwiches in a paper bag,” he muttered as he hauled along the basket.
They found a spot and kicked off their shoes. She spread the blanket and sank onto it. Peter settled beside her.
“I love it here,” Kit said, tipping her face to the sun. Strawberry Fields, a two-and-half-acre, tear-shaped park, was designed in commemoration of John Lennon. A tribute to Lennon, a black-and-white mosaic, with the single word, Imagine, had become an unofficial shrine to his memory where fans left flowers and tokens. Today one white rose wilted in the heat.
They weren’t the only ones picnicking in Strawberry Fields, but Kit suspected their meal was the most elegant.
She’d asked for something simple and rustic, but it was designer simple.
There was cold roast chicken with rosemary and lemon and artisan breads, cheeses and olives, grapes and apples and an almond and apple cake. There was Italian soda and sparkling water to drink and, to finish off, chocolate truffles.
“I feel like I should have brought a book of poetry and I should read it to you,” Peter said as he demolished a chicken sandwich.
“What kind of poetry would you recite?” she asked him. The sun was warm on her face and the scent of grass and trees was a rare pleasure.
“I’d like to say it would be Shakespearean sonnets, but in truth?” he leaned over to touch her hair. “I’d read you erotic poetry.”
Then Kit’s cell phone rang, a mood shatterer if there ever was one. She checked the number. “Sorry,” she said to Peter. “It’s the hotel. I have to answer.” Then she stuck her professional smile on her face and answered. “Kit Prestcott.”
“We have a problem,” said Janice, the hotel’s general manager.
“What is it?”
“Our other fantasy winner checked in.”
“Our other fantasy winner? But…there’s only one.”
“Irene Bonnet is standing at the registration desk at this very moment.”
“Irene Bonnet?” Irene was the comedienne with the Cinderella fantasy. “She’s the second winner. She’s not due until next weekend.”
“Well, the thing is—she’s here.”
“Look, call on all your tact, but she can’t come this weekend, she has to come next weekend. We already have a fantasy winner.”
“She’s waving around her congratulations letter—the one signed by Piper.”
“Right.”
“And the dates are for this weekend.”
“No. That’s impossible…”
“Kit, she’s not the sort of person you can quietly fob off, if you know what I mean.”
“Damn it, I should have proofed that letter myself before Piper signed it.” She sucked in a breath.
“Why didn’t she show up yesterday?”
“She said she had to perform somewhere on Friday night and she called Piper who told her she could change her Friday through Sunday to Saturday through Monday.” Janice was putting on as much fake pleasantness as Kit, but it was clear she wanted to smack Piper right now as badly as Kit did.
“And Piper forgot to mention it to anyone.”
“So it seems.”
“The airhead gene raises its head again.”
“I can’t get hold of Piper to confirm.”
“She’s in the Hamptons. With Trace.”
“Ah. Cell phone turned off.”
“Yep.”
“So, we’re on our own.”
“All right. This is not a disaster,” she reminded them both, sitting up straighter and pushing her glass out of the way. The word disaster played like a drumbeat against the inside of her skull. Disaster, disaster, disaster.
Kit racked her brain to remember what the woman’s fantasy was. She remembered that she and Piper had laughed. The woman had wanted to be a princess for one weekend. Piper thought every woman who stayed at Hush should feel like a princess. It was a nice marketing hook. “Are any of the suites free?”
“The Vera Wang and the Oscar de la Renta.”
“Okay. Put her in the Oscar. It’s more princessy. What’s she like?”
There was a short pause. “She’s unusual.”
“Unusual in a good way? Like eccentric? Or unusual like somebody needs to go back on their meds?”
“Um. Kind of both. She’s a stand-up comedienne. If you get my drift. I really think you need to get back here.”
“All right. I’m sorry about this Janice, and thanks. I’ll get her a host and we’ll make this work. Don’t worry.”
Don’t worry indeed. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting like her dad had suggested?
She closed her phone and found Peter regarding her with a not-quite-disguised smirk. “Trouble?”
“Right here in River City. I’ve got a stand-up comedienne looking for a good time. Her letter had the wrong dates on it and she somehow got Piper involved who made a mess of the booking.” She shook her head. “Piper’s brilliant, but she’s not a good detail person.”
“I can imagine.”
“Yeah. We never let her near the bookings.”
“So, you’ve got a stand-up comic standing at Hush reception as we speak?”
Kit nodded. “And you know she’s got to be looking for fresh material for her next gig.”
“Don’t you check these winners out before you choose them?”
She stared at him. “Obviously not. Look, can you go feed the ducks or something while I make some calls? I’m sorry about this, but I’ve got to get a host for this woman, and fast.”
She shook a warning finger at him. “And not one word about how that seems to be an epidemic. I am on to you.”
He raised both hands in a peace gesture. “I wasn’t go
ing to say anything. Let me know if I can help.”
“Unless you know the next Jerry Seinfeld, and he’s single and lives in New York, then no.”
Already she was scrolling through her stored numbers. The good news was that most of the people she’d already approached about being hosts or hostesses were in the entertainment business.
Roger was already organized for next week. Roger was a big teddy bear of a guy who’d been a bouncer and had briefly tried pro wrestling before settling in to work as a character actor. He’d had bit parts in Law & Order, CSI: NY and a couple of feature films. When he was waiting for the next part, he did a lot of partying. Roger had a great sense of humor. He’d seemed perfect. She called him and got his roommate. Apparently he was definitely partying this weekend.
In L.A.
It felt as if history was repeating itself as she went through exactly what she’d been through the day before, only this time it was male recorded voices telling her they weren’t available, out of town, leave a message, blah, blah, blah. She left a couple of messages, but there wasn’t time.
She was going to have to break her own rules and use one of the hotel staff to fill in—at least they had cute guys on call all weekend. It didn’t feel right, though, and the last thing she wanted was to end up part of a standup routine that started, “Let me tell you about this doorman at Hush. Let’s just say he didn’t knock when he entered.”
She started packing up the remains of the picnic without even seeing what she was doing.
“I take it you had no luck?”
“None.”
Peter squatted beside her and helped her repack the basket, being a lot neater about it than she’d been.
“What is this woman’s fantasy?”
“All I remember is that she had a princess fantasy. For a weekend, she wants to be pampered and treated like a princess. Now all I need is a handy Prince Charming, who happens to be sitting all alone in Manhattan on a Saturday afternoon.” She dropped her forehead into her hand and groaned. “I am so screwed.”
While a wave of panic threatened, Peter rubbed her back in friendly support.
“I have a friend,” he said.
“Well, congratulations.”
“No, I mean, he’s a single man who is a great companion. A lot of fun, knows everyone. I know he’s in town. He’d probably do me a favor if I asked him and spend some time with this woman.”