Honeymoon Hotel

by Bretton, Barbara

  She'd expected an argument from him, a fine rage, harsh words spoken in the heat of anger and passion.

  At the very least, she'd expected him to storm out of her apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  But not even in the face of high romantic drama had that bloody British reserve of his failed him.

  In fact, he didn't even seem to understand that they'd broken up at all. He'd merely kissed her at the door, and two hours later a baker's dozen long-stemmed red roses had arrived in a glossy white box tied with scarlet ribbons.

  She sat down in front of her mirror, pushed aside three vases of flowers and began tissuing off the thick layers of Pan-Cake that turned Holland Masters into Caroline, daytime TV's number-one bitch.

  Each and every day since the alleged breakup, a dozen roses plus one had arrived at her home, at her dressing room, at her agent's office, all with the same ivory card with the single word: Patience.

  "Patience!" She tossed the tissues into the wastebasket next to the dressing table. She'd had nothing but patience for two years, and where had it gotten her?

  Nowhere, that's where.

  He was still secretive, still mysterious, still as maddeningly out of reach as he'd ever been.

  Well, damn it, she didn't need that.

  Her entire life had been spread out in front of Alistair like a smorgasbord, and he hadn't offered her anything more substantial than an appetizer.

  A tantalizing appetizer, she had to admit, but an appetizer nonetheless. She knew there'd been a wife named Sarah whom he'd loved. She knew there was a niece named Maggie whom he adored. She knew that Ryder and Joanna were closer to him than almost anyone on earth.

  So what?

  What were his dreams?

  What was it that beckoned when he left her suddenly in the middle of the night?

  Where did he go, and what did he do once he got there?

  And the biggest question of all: If it really as over, why on earth did she still care?

  "Love!" She tossed a makeup sponge at her reflection. "Bah, humbug!"

  #

  Bermuda.

  John stared up at the ceiling. He'd tried counting sheep, stock options and bank accounts, but no dice.

  If he had any brains he'd be asleep by now. Tomorrow night was the big concert at the Garden, and for the next forty-eight hours he knew he'd be running on caffeine and adrenaline.

  Eight hours' sleep would be a nice cushion between him and exhaustion.

  But Maggie's surprising offer had him wide awake.

  There was a hell of a big difference between a suite at the Plaza and a yacht off Bermuda, even if said yacht did belong to her uncle.

  The Maggie he knew was more comfortable in jeans than designer dresses.

  A suite at the Plaza had seemed to impress her.

  At least that's what he'd thought before he discovered there was a seventy-four foot yacht awaiting her arrival.

  He'd done his damnedest to convince her of the wonders of the Big Apple, but she wouldn't give an inch, not even to consider one night in Manhattan followed by four nights on the high seas.

  John punched his pillow and turned over. Why hadn't he noticed before exactly how stubborn Maggie was?

  Every now and then he became aware of an almost palpable barrier around her, an invisible shield that seemed to keep him an arm's length away from ever understanding exactly what she was all about.

  Bermuda.

  He couldn't help wondering if there was more to the lure of the island than simply what met the eye.

  #

  Her bags were packed, and the limousine John had sent was waiting in the driveway. All Maggie had to do was get her last-minute instructions from Alistair and she was off to Madison Square Garden.

  And Bermuda.

  She found him in the drawing room, hidden behind a mainframe computer the size of her floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

  "Well," she said, posing in the doorway. "I'm ready to go."

  He looked up. "Maggie?"

  She flicked her outrageously big hair over her shoulder and flashed Alistair a grin.

  "Good God in heaven! Is that you?"

  "Yes, it is," she said, laughing. "Do I look like a groupie or what?"

  Her uncle's eyes lingered on her mile-high platform shoes, skipped quickly over her leather mini and skimpy t-shirt, then stopped dead on her face.

  "I have never seen so much eye makeup on another living woman."

  "This was called the natural look long ago and far away."

  He muttered something and shook his head. "Incredible. American ingenuity."

  "Oh, don't blame us! Your side started it back in the sixties."

  "Makes one wonder if the Empire is in deep trouble."

  "Be objective, Ally." She pirouetted. "What do you really think?"

  He looked as if Harrod's window had blown up on his doorstep. "You look like a tart."

  "You old darling! You always know the right thing to say." She kissed his cheek. "Do you have the tickets and everything for me?"

  He pulled a suede pouch out of the briefcase he kept next to him at all times. "Ready and waiting. You have time for exactly one glass of champagne after the concert, then it's off to the airport."

  Alistair was apologetic over the fact they weren't flying first class.

  "I understand," she said, tucking the tickets away. "It was short notice, and we couldn't very well take the PAX jet, could we?"

  "No, my dear, you could not." His voice softened,. "Have a grand time."

  She tried to thank him, but her voice momentarily faltered. "I don't know what to say, Ally. I --" She cleared her throat. " -- you've done so much." The White Elephant was now a model of turn-of-the-century charm and splendor. After the Summit Meeting was over this weekend, success was a sure thing.

  She'd waited so long for it that now that the moment was here, she found it hard to believe. "I feel like Cinderella with the clock about to strike midnight." She peered out the window at the stretch limo in the driveway. "Some pumpkin."

  "I think your imagination is running away with you, Maggie, but that's understandable. Love does those things."

  She could feel the heat building in her cheeks, but she made no motion to hide the fact. "I've been that obvious?"

  "Classic symptoms. I recognized them immediately."

  "I can't thank you enough, Alistair, for all you've done. You made all my dreams for The White Elephant come true."

  "You would have made them all come true on your own. PAX just gave them an added push in the right direction."

  "And this won't all disappear when the clock strikes midnight?"

  He laughed and walked her to the front door. "Just make certain that when it does strike midnight, you and your Mr. Tyler are on a plane bound for Bermuda."

  "Don't worry, Ally. That's one thing you can count on."

  #

  There was something to be said for life in the fast lane, Maggie thought, as the limo whisked into the reserved parking spot.

  No sweaty subways.

  No crowded buses.

  No crazy cabdrivers whose sole English words were "accident," and "no make change."

  The driver got out and ran around to open her door. She exited to the oohs and aahs of a throng of fans cordoned off just beyond the stage entrance. Scraps of whispered comments about her legs and her hair filtered to her as she strode to the door, but it wasn't until she heard the word groupie that she started to laugh.

  Less than one month ago she'd been waging a one-woman campaign against tackiness in the Poconos, and now there she was looking like a rock and roll queen.

  Where were her values?

  Where was her good taste?

  She flashed her backstage pass at the guard and stepped into the madhouse.

  What's the matter, Douglass?

  Where was her sense of adventure?

  She looked up at a man who sported earrings shaped like green rubber snakes. This was as good a plac
e as any to start.

  "Excuse me," she said. "Could you tell me where the --"

  "Paul!" A woman in gold spandex who was old enough to be Maggie's grandmother raced up to the snake man. "Deep Six says they won't go on if we don't ship in Perrier pronto. Why don't you --" They disappeared into the crowd of reporters and camera crews milling around the rolling bar.

  A friendly photographer from Newsweek took a picture of Maggie, then showed her how to thread her way through the backstage tangle and find the seats reserved for guests.

  Her seat was front row, center. She shamelessly twisted around, scanning the audience, and easily picked out a dozen famous faces without even trying.

  The lights went down.

  If the applause and cheers from the audience were any indication, the opening acts were good, but Maggie couldn't hear over the violent pounding of her heart.

  "And now," the voice from the loudspeaker boomed, "what you've all been waiting for, the group that gave street music a good name: The Domino Theory!"

  The stage went black, and then suddenly an amber spotlight found John.

  He looked mean and angry, dangerous and too sexy for words.

  He grabbed the microphone, and before the first song was over, Maggie understood what animal magnetism was all about.

  #

  The applause rushed toward him like a runaway train, and in that moment John knew he had that damned audience in the palm of his hand.

  "You nailed 'em," Terry said as they set up the next song. "It's clear sailing from here on."

  John said nothing.

  After all the years and all the changes, standing there in the heat of the spotlight, basking in the applause, he'd almost forgotten why he'd said yes in the first place.

  But looking at Terry, he remembered.

  This wasn't his world.

  It never had been.

  It never would be.

  The adulation of the faceless crowd wasn't what he wanted or needed. Music wasn't why he got up every morning.'

  "Animal . . . Animal . . . Animal . . . "

  They were beginning to chant that old nickname and, if he let it happen, no one out there would even remember there was anyone else in the group.

  He met Terry's eyes. "It's all yours," he said.

  He stepped out of the spotlight and made room for the ones who really deserved it.

  #

  The transition was so smooth, so natural that it took Maggie half a song before she realized what had happened.

  From the moment he took the stage she'd seen and heard nothing else.

  How could she?

  Up there in the spotlight he was pure macho swagger, every fantasy she'd ever had -- and a few she hadn't dared.

  In those tight, faded jeans, the T-shirt, the battered leather jacket, he was the bad boy out to ruin the reputation of every girl in the senior class.

  The rest of the group faded next to him.

  He looked out over the audience, the conquering warrior surveying the vanquished.

  The power was his.

  So was the choice.

  She understood what he was doing in a way no one else could. Much of her own life had been decided by her own sense of responsibility.

  Until that moment, desire had been the ruling force in their relationship.

  No longer.

  When he stepped out of that seductive spotlight and handed the power over to the other men without regret, she knew beyond question that for her there could be no turning back.

  #

  "There's no hope for it then." Alistair switched off the computer and rose from behind his desk at Control Center East, aka The White Elephant. "She'll have to be brought back."

  From the leather pouch ever present at his side, he withdrew copies of her travel plans.

  "Madison Square Garden?" The tallest of his aides shook his head. "Couldn't do it. Place'll be crawling with photographers. Too risky."

  "The airport then," he said, placing his glasses on top of the computer console. "Have her paged and explain the situation."

  "What if she gives us trouble?"

  "She won't," said Alistair. "She's a professional. She'll do what needs to be done."

  He checked his watch, then synchronized it with the others. "Take her car," he said to the man standing before him. "It will attract less attention. I'll be waiting here."

  He wasn't asking her to forego her plans entirely.

  He was simply asking her to delay them.

  Maggie would understand -- she always had before -- and once it was over he'd make it up to her with three weeks in Bermuda instead of a few short days.

  Foolproof, he thought, lighting a cigarette.

  Absolutely foolproof.

  Unfortunately Alistair Chambers had forgotten one very important detail: John Adams Tyler, who wouldn't understand anything at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  John slipped into the huge ballroom and watched the party kaleidoscoping around him. Bright streaks of crimson from silky cocktail dresses. Splashes of blue and gold from mock-military uniforms. The sparkle of glitter and the blinding pop of flashbulbs, hot and white.

  Fifteen years and not one damned thing had changed.

  Fifteen years ago he'd been feeling caged in, ready to move on, praying there'd be more to life than the next gig, wondering if he could make it without his friends and if he was crazy to even try.

  Fifteen years ago Maggie Douglass was only a dream, a figment of his imagination, the same as the career he wanted to carve.

  He drained his bottle of water and spotted her laughing with Terry's wife as they pointed toward the famous faces all around.

  No sophisticated ennui for Maggie. She was blatantly, unashamedly star-struck, and he loved it.

  There were no secrets with Maggie, no huge black clouds hovering overhead. She'd grown up in the Midwest, married in the East and buried a husband much too soon. She was ambitious and creative, witty and uncompromisingly honest, and if she sometimes kept a barrier around her emotions -- hell, she'd been hurt. That was something he could understand.

  Something he could overcome.

  She was also sexy as hell in that short leather skirt with her long strawberry blond hair flying wild about her shoulders, and if he didn't get her alone within the next eight minutes he'd probably go up in a blaze of protoplasm.

  He grinned, the invisible man, as three reporters rushed past him to get to Terry and the guys.

  He came up behind Maggie and rested his hand on her hip. "How would you feel about getting out of here?"

  "Bailing out on your own party?" she said with a grin. "You're as bad as your substitute drummer."

  He glanced around. She was right. Dave had ditched the after-party. Not that he blamed the guy. If he was feeling like the odd man out, he could imagine how Ronnie's substitute had felt.

  "I was thinking we could be alone."

  She leaned against him for a moment, her face cool and composed. "Depends what you have in mind."

  "There's a car outside." His voice was low and intimate, meant for her alone. "We can be at the airport in half an hour."

  She considered his words. "Bermuda," she said, looking up at him through her thick, dark false eyelashes. "I'd love to go to Bermuda."

  "Bermuda sounds good."

  "And a yacht," she said, her blue eyes sparkling. "There has to be a yacht."

  "Shouldn't be a problem."

  She made a show of looking at the swarm of reporters surrounding Terry, Frank and Joe. "Think they can get along without you?"

  He caught Terry's eye across the room. The red-haired man flashed him a thumbs-up, and John knew they'd never miss him.

  "Come on," he said, putting his arm around Maggie's shoulder. "We have a plane to catch."

  #

  Maybe it was the moonlight, maybe it was her mood, but the ride from Manhattan to Newark International Airport had never been lovelier.

  Even the New Jersey Turnpike se
emed blessed with its own magic tonight.

  While she'd enjoyed her limousine ride into the city earlier that evening, she adored the ride back out.

  And why not?

  Wrapped in John's arms, the back seat of her Jeep would seem like paradise.

  "You were wonderful tonight," she murmured against his lips. "Absolutely wonderful."

  "I'm glad you like my singing," he said, chuckling, "but you told me that already."

  "I'm not talking about your singing."

  His hand drifted across her thigh. "What are you talking about, Maggie?"

  She moved his hand to a safer, more neutral spot.

  "I'm talking about what you did up there on that stage."

  He reached over to fiddle with the stereo system, but she turned it off from the master control panel on her door.

  "Was it that obvious?" he asked.

  "Not to anyone else." She rested her forehead against his cheek. "That audience belonged to you, and you handed them over."

  He said nothing, just laced his fingers through hers.

  "I hope they appreciate what you did," she said, her voice fierce. "You didn't have to do that."

  "Yeah, I did." He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed each fingertip. "And it took me fifteen years to get around to it."

  It had been a noble act in a business not known for nobility, the act of a man who understood what true generosity was all about.

  The act of a man she could spend a lifetime getting to know.

  How it had happened that she, the realist of the first order, would find herself in love with a romantic like John was beyond her, but happen it had.

  Although she'd fought against it, that same inexplicable malady that he called love at first sight had seized her the moment she saw him walk into the Bronze Penguin.

  Beyond the reach of logic and practicality and common sense, her heart had recognized the truth long before her head, and only her promise to Alistair had kept her from throwing herself at John's doorstep and declaring her undying love.