by Billie Green
Waiting For Lila
❖
Billie Green
WAITING FOR LILA
A Bantam Book May 1989
LOVESWEPT and the wave device are registered
trademarks of Bantam Books, a division of
Bantam Douhleday Dell Publtshtng Group. Inc.
Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and elsewhere.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1989 by Blllle Green.
Cover art copyright © 1989 by Penalva.
Chapter 1
In the aisle seat on the plane bound for Acapulco, Bill Shelley sat with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep so he could escape the attention of Margo, the woman in the window seat. In the seat between them was That Poor Man, Margo's husband, Gerald.
Bill had listened to Margo complain from the minute they had left Houston, and now a headache was beginning to form behind his closed eyes. Shutting Margo out wasn't easy.
Suddenly, from somewhere ahead of him in the plane. Bill heard a woman laugh. Margo's voice faded, conquered by the soft sound of the incredible laughter. It wasn't the first time since leaving Houston that Bill had heard it, and, as before, it had the strangest effect on him. He could compare it only to someone taking a pillow and fluffing it into a more comfortable shape. That's what the laugh did to him. It knocked out all the lumps.
It fluffed him into shape, giving him more fullness, more substance. More joy in just being alive.
He was tired, he told himself. He was overworked. He was going off the deep end because of exhaustion. Fluff my heart and I'll follow you anywhere, he thought wryly.
Opening his eyes a little, he began to scan the passengers in the aisle seats ahead of him. He was searching for The Laugh.
The redhead just in front and to his right? She was a small woman, and when she turned slightly to the man across the aisle, Bill saw a sweet, shy face. But it hadn't been a sweet, shy laugh.
Maybe it was the brunette two rows up. The back of her head looked elegant and regal, and the nape of her neck was definitely intriguing.
Just then the brunette raised a slender hand to hail a flight attendant. The gesture was haughty, imperious. The Laugh had been anything but haughty.
Two rows up from the brunette, blue-tinted hair sat next to short brown hair. He had taken a walk up the aisle earlier, and he knew the brown hair looked like a phys ed teacher. She certainly had an impressive build, and if she bench-pressed less than a hundred and fifty pounds, Bill would eat his hat.
No, he told himself, it wasn't a muscular laugh.
He remembered seeing two blondes sitting next to each other in the front of the plane. One had a platinum fall of hair that almost covered her shoulders. A fairy-tale princess, delicate and dreamy.
The other woman's hair was upswept and brushed with gold, as though Midas had passed a light, caressing hand across it.
Bill decided he would vote for one of the blondes. The Laugh probably belonged to the gym teacher or the blue-haired elderly woman, but since his imagination was free to go anywhere, he would pretend The Laugh came from a more attractive source.
At that moment Margo turned her head, and Bill got his eyes closed just in time. After a few minutes his pretense of sleep became a reality, and later he thought maybe he dreamed about golden-haired laughter.
Bill was still drowsy when he stepped from the plane and unprepared for the sunlight that hit him full in the face, blinding him with its brilliance. Seconds later, as the world began to come again into focus, he saw the purple mountains, close in the background, that provided a fitting backdrop for the flamboyant world at sea level.
He had forgotten how absurdly beautiful Aca-pulco was, its colors brighter, bolder, and more intense than anything found in Bill's native Houston. Smiling slightly, he moved down the steps and onto the tarmac.
At the gate just beyond a security barrier he had to maneuver around several people carrying placards. He wouldn't have given them more than a passing glance if Margo hadn't begun tugging urgently at his sleeve.
"Who is Delilah?" she whispered loudly.
Bill stopped walking and raised a brow in inquiry. "Delilah?"
"That's what it says on the signs." She nodded toward the placards. "She must have been on the plane with us, but I didn't see anyone famous, did you?"
He thought of The Laugh. He wouldn't have been at all surprised to learn the laugh had come from someone famous. "As a matter of fact—" he began.
"This makes me so mad," Margo interrupted as she punched her husband in the shoulder. "Gerald, why didn't you pay more attention? You know I wasn't wearing my glasses." Without giving Gerald a chance to answer, Margo continued. "Maybe she's a Mexican actress. Is Delilah a Mexican name? I thought it was something out of the Bible."
Bill smiled. "I think they've probably discovered the Bible in Mexico."
"Oh, of course," Margo said in sudden understanding. "Missionaries."
"Fourteenth-century missionaries," he agreed.
"I can't keep up with all these new religions. Moonies and Charismatics and . . . what are those hairy ones?"
"Hasidic Jews?"
"No, that's not the name." She turned to her husband. "Gerald, what do you call those people who hang around the airport? I can't figure out why they call them hairy when as far as I can tell they're all bald."
Ignoring her question, her husband began to look through the canvas bag he carried on his shoulder. "What did you do with my sunscreen?" Gerald's distinctive nasal whine was yet another of the reasons Bill had decided to nap on the plane. "I had everything in here just exactly the way I wanted it. I don't know why you have to mess with my stuff. Some people would call It an invasion of privacy, Margo. Some people wouldn't put up with it. You know what the sun does to my nose. I don't see why you can't just—"
Bill used Gerald's pitiful harangue to get away from the couple, but since they had the way forward blocked, he backtracked to try to go around them. As he moved past the sign-carrying group. Bill again became an unwilling intruder on a private conversation.
"Are you sure she's on this plane?" The speaker was a slender man with Oriental features who leaned close to an attractive woman with radiant black hair.
"I wrote it down, Jack. She's probably just hanging back until the aisles clear. You know Delilah. She doesn't wait in line for anything."
When the woman turned. Bill could see the sign resting on her shoulder. Written in crayon were the words delilah for empress.
Bill chuckled softly. Whoever the mysterious Delilah was, she had four devoted fans, devoted but slightly bizarre. Although he wasn't normally a celebrity watcher, they intrigued Bill enough to make him linger a few feet away.
Another member of the group, a large man with curly hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and who wore a banner across his ample chest, said, "Maybe Delilah decided not to come. Her fiance—what's his name? He owns a radio station or something."
"Paul," one of the others volunteered.
The large man nodded. "That's it. Maybe Paul talked her into staying home. You can bet that when Delilah is my fiance, I won't let her move two feet away from me."
The group reacted with laughter and hoots of derision, then the brunette spoke again. "Where have you been, for heaven's sake? Delilah broke off her engagement to Paul months ago. I can't believe you didn't see it in the newspaper. Paul told a gossip columnist that he was absolutely devastated and thinking of jumping off a bridge into the Trinity River—I always thought Paul was a little too intense—but when someone told him that he would end up with his head stuck in the mud because the Trinity is only about three feet deep under that bridge and most of that is slime, he decided to get drunk instead.
"For the last six or seven weeks," she continued, "she's been dating a banker named Hamilton Lindley Wharton the Third."
"Gadzooks," the large man said, rolling his eyes expressively. "What a mouthful. Have you seen him. Glory? Does he look anything like his name?"
The woman nodded, her deep blue eyes sparkling with laughter. "Yes, I'm afraid so. He's sweet but terribly pompous until he gets around Delilah. Then he acts like a nervous puppy."
"Knowing Delilah, I'll bet she has him house-broken by now," said a petite woman, the fourth and last member of the group.
"For sweet Pete's sake, Gerald! You can wait just a little while to start your precious vacation."
Margo's piercing voice came from right behind Bill and harshly intruded on his leisurely bout of people watching. He glanced over his shoulder and found That Poor Man being hauled backward so that his wife could get a closer look at the group near the ramp.
"You never think of what I would like to do," Margo complained. "Do I ask for much? I wanted to go to Disney World for our vacation, but that wasn't good enough for you. It had to be Aca-pulco. Well, we're here now, so let me get what little enjoyment out of this trip I can."
At the exact moment Bill had made up his mind to leave before Margo spotted him, he heard another voice, one that made him forget all thoughts of escape.
"Why, what a surprise. Imagine finding a gathering of loyal fans here in the middle of nowhere."
This voice, unlike Margo's, was worth listening to. It was exactly like The Laugh.
Not satin, Bill thought, straining to hear. It was more like raw silk, smooth and husky at the same time. The mixture was unique, vital, and so Incredibly sensual his blood ran faster in a spontaneous response.
If Delilah was the keeper of The Laugh, he thought, raising one thick brow, even her voice was worth waiting for.
Turning toward the source, he found that several other people had had the same idea and had moved between him and the plane, effectively blocking his view. He began to push his way through, unwilling for the moment to examine his growing need to see this stranger named Delilah.
Seconds later he did just that and found himself staring in open-mouthed pleasure. It was the Midas blonde. She was tall, slender, and beautifully put together. Not only her hair but every inch of her seemed to have been touched with gold. She was unconsciously sensual, consciously elegant. On her, the blue cotton of her shirtwaist dress looked as luxurious as the finest quality silk.
Bill whistled softly in stunned admiration. Delilah wasn't simply beautiful, she was something from out of a dream. She stood regally apart, surveying through the dark lenses of her sunglasses the four people who had been eagerly awaiting her arrival.
"You don't know how much your reception means to me," she said, and Bill thought he detected great amusement in her voice. "No matter how many wonderful things life has waiting for me in the future, I promise I'll never forget you. You, my most loyal supporters. You, the little people, the inconsequential people, the wretched flotsam and jetsam of society, the skim milk upon which the cream of the world rests."
When she lifted her nose just a fraction of an inch higher, the group broke into laughter and began to crowd around her. She immediately took off her glasses, revealing the golden-brown eyes Bill had more than half expected. He watched her intently as she hugged and laughed her way through the group.
A moment later a loud noise from the terminal caused her to look up. Her gaze skimmed past Bill. He was almost certain that she hadn't actually taken in his presence, but as her eyes met his, then moved on past, something happened to him, something even bigger than the fluffed-pillow feeling. It was as though, for just a fraction of a second, he had no control over his own limbs. He had taken two steps toward her before he remembered that they were strangers.
It was an honest-to-gosh Twilight Zone sensation, and Bill couldn't decide whether to laugh or get himself to the nearest psychiatrist.
Bill had known beautiful women in his life; he had even dated a few. So he knew it wasn't this woman's fantastic looks that caused him to react so strongly. That would have been a normal reaction, an ordinary reaction. What he was experiencing went way beyond ordinary.
In fact, he thought, it was damned spooky. Because, although he had never seen her before, when their eyes had met for that split second, there had been a moment of distinct recognition.
There had to be an explanation, he told himself, furrows of concentration appearing in his brow as he stared at her. He had never been given to quirky moods or flights of fancy, and the phenomenon known as precognition was a bit too equivocal for his taste.
Nevertheless, there had been something between them. Or at least something in him. But what was it?
After a moment his eyes widened in astonished understanding. He rubbed his chin, and a peculiar little smile twisted his lips as he shook his head and whispered, "Well. I'll be damned."
Chapter 2
Bill stood and watched, shamelessly eavesdropping as the beautiful Delilah let her friends crowd around her. He examined the expression on her face and knew without doubt that these people were important to her
"You said you'd never forget the little people." The large man leaned his head against Delilah's shoulder, gazing up at her with soulful brown eyes. "But you didn't say anything about me."
Bill swallowed a laugh when he saw that the man wore a white satin banner draped across his extra-wide chest. The words delilah's dominant disciple were written on it in neon pink marker.
"Booger darling"—the golden huskiness of her voice sank into Bill's flesh, all the way to the bones—"I've pined for you every minute we've been apart."
"Of course you have," the man called Booger said solemnly. "A man of my magnitude Isn't easy to forget."
"A man of your bulk isn't easy to forget," said the man with Oriental features. "Heaven knows I've tried often enough. Trash' him, Delilah. Have a fling with a real man."
"I don't think so, Jack," Delilah said. Her tone of voice was serious, but her golden eyes sparkled with fun. "I couldn't stand breaking the hearts of the millions of shallow women who love you."
A short, slightly stocky woman rolled her eyes expressively behind the round frames of her thick glasses. "Can't you two think of anything except sex?"
"No," both men said simultaneously and emphatically.
"Pay no attention to them," the raven-haired woman said. "My theory is that the warm climate has made their brains swell, which is why Jack"— Bill assumed the man with Oriental features was Jack—"has been running around beating his chest and flexing his muscles, and Booger tries to convince every woman he sees to let him take her chest measurements—strictly in the interest of science, he says. Thank goodness Alan seems immune to whatever is in the air here."
"Speaking of your loving husband, where is he?" Delilah asked.
"He had business to take care of or he would have come to the airport with us," Glory explained.
"A likely story," Booger scoffed. "Doesn't it seem a little strange that he remembered this 'business' the minute he saw our placards?"
Delilah grinned. "A prudent man is our Alan."
"An unmitigated coward is our Alan," Jack corrected her.
Glory raised one fist, shaking it at the group at large. "He's my honey and I'll defend his circumspection with my last breath. Besides, he's learning and growing every day. In fact, last week he played a practical joke on my father. He misquoted a stock report."
"There's a knee slapper if I ever heard one," the stocky woman said, crossing her eyes.
As they talked, they moved toward the airport terminal. Bill followed along behind them. He hadn't made a conscious decision to tag along. He simply seemed to have no choice.
At that moment a group of musicians pushed abruptly in front of him, and, since his gaze was on Delilah, Bill stumbled into one of the men, causing him to drop his instrument case. By the time Bill had apologized and helped the man, Delilah and her group h
ad disappeared.
Glancing around, Bill shook his head. He was annoyed but not discouraged. He would find her. He was sure of it. Even though there were quite a few hotels in Acapulco, even though it might take all his spare time, one way or another he would find the golden girl.
Later, Bill's annoyance was tinged with just a little peevishness. His afternoon meeting had taken much longer than expected, so instead of searching for Delilah as he had planned to do, he now sat In the hotel's small bar, thinking about her.
La Porta, the hotel Bill had chosen, was not the most luxurious in Acapulco, but it suited him. A sprawling, palm-shaded structure, it was four stories tall and had pristine white walls as well as the obligatory red tile roof. It had seemed exactly right when he chose it. but now he wondered if he would have had a better chance of finding the glorious Delilah in one of the splashier hotels.
Then suddenly he heard The Laugh, and glancing up, he saw Delilah and her friends walk into the bar. They sat at a larger table approximately halfway across the small room from Bill. His luck had held.
"So that's why we're staying here," a stocky woman was saying. "And we were lucky to get a suite. Two small conferences are being held at La Porta this week."
"UPA and IJAMA," Booger said.
Delilah stared at him, one slender brow raised. "I know a speech therapist who can fix that problem."
"UPA is the United Plumbers Association and IJAMA stands for the Independent Jazz Artists of Mid-America," Booger explained. "Nice bunch of guys, but they don't need suites."
"Addie dear." Delilah said to the stocky woman, "I hope you've grown out of that tedious habit of—remove your hand from my thigh, Jack—leaving the light on all night long. I haven't had to wear a sleeping mask in the three years since we were roommates."
While Addie huffed, the rest of the group laughed good-naturedly. Obviously their friendship was well established.
"If she does," Glory said, "you won't be able to steal my bedroom this time, Dee."