You Call This Romance!?: You Call This Romance!? / Are You For Real

“Well, screw ’em,” Tippy said. “Put on the pressure. Pay somebody a little cash under the table.” Her face was still sweet. She really was one great actress. Only Cabot could see the tic starting to twitch in the corner of her left eye.

“I’m working with a travel agent,” Cabot said. “I don’t think she’s the put-on-the-pressure, a-little-cash-under-the-table kind of person.”

“Screw her too.” She punctuated each word with a jab of her swizzle stick, the one that had come with her extra-dry straight-up martini and had once had olives impaled on it.

Cabot felt a hard red flush of anger rising to his face and squelched it by sheer strength of will. “You don’t want to do that. She’s one of your biggest fans.”

“She is?” Sudden interest gleamed in the baby blues.

“Absolutely. She sees you as the saint, the martyr you played in Kiss. Now Tippy,” he said indulgently, “a big part of my job is to establish your image in the media minds. Your job is to maintain that image. Have I got this right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this travel agent believes in your image. She booked the no-smoking hotel by accident, I think.” Here Cabot paused for a moment, reflecting that Faith Sumner probably did a good many things by accident. “She’d be deeply, deeply disappointed in you if I told her you couldn’t make this one little sacrifice, not smoking for a weekend. You might lose a fan. You can’t afford to lose a fan. Not even one.” This was a subtle reminder that she hadn’t made it to the big time yet. There was still room for a little humility, a little accommodation.

She contemplated him coolly, never losing the sweet smile. “I think you got a little thing for this travel agent,” she said.

The color rose again to Cabot’s face. “Absolutely—”

“You’re not thinkin’ about backin’ out on me, are you? Like Josh?”

“—not. I’ve made a commitment…to your career.” He added after a brief hesitation, “And I intend to follow through on it.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Yes.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She gazed at him. “Okay, then.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, keep the friggin’ no-smokin’ hotel.”

“Thanks,” Cabot said gratefully. “I promise you we’ll have a decent time. I’ll stock the room with chocolates and—”

“Whaddya mean ‘we’?”

“Pardon?”

“If you think for one minute I’m goin’ on that dry run with you you’re dumber than I figured. Not smoke for a whole weekend? Fageddaboudit.”

“Tippy…” Cabot looked up to see a waiter hovering over them. “Salads,” he said, “one Caesar, one Cobb, and bring me the wine list. No, just bring us a bottle of something. I don’t suppose you have any hemlock stashed away in the back.”

“Is that a California, sir, or a French…”

“He was kidding,” Tippy said, melting the waiter with a long, long look, then turning the look on Cabot.

It didn’t faze him. He glared at her from across the table. “You expect me to do the dry run alone? Pose for the video by myself?”

“You’d look precious in my going-away suit,” Tippy said, “but no, this is the movies, baby. You take a double.”

SO HERE HE WAS AGAIN, back at Wycoff Worldwide and feeling like a fool. But this time, what he had to do wasn’t the kind of thing you could do on the phone.

Just to show himself, and her, that it wasn’t anything about her that had brought him back, he gave her a scowl as he walked right past her and straight to the head honcho’s office.

He peered in. Wycoff, a portly man with a bulbous nose, sat behind his desk leafing through travel brochures, like a man planning his own vacation. “Harrumph,” Cabot said.

Wycoff lifted his head, but he didn’t look happy to see Cabot standing there. “May I help you?” he said in an unhelpful tone.

“Yes.” Cabot strode in and sat down, refusing to be put off. “Name’s Cabot Drennan. Your agent Faith Sumner is working with me on my honeymoon arrangements and I…” He paused, fascinated by the dull-red color suffusing Wycoff’s face.

“Say no more. I’ll set you up at once with Miss Eldridge. Miss Eldridge has been with me for thirty years, and she—”

“I don’t want Miss Eldridge. I want Miss Sumner.” Feeling that a dull red flush might be climbing his face, he added hastily, “to go on working with me.”

“You do? She hasn’t somehow booked your cruise on a Russian oil tanker or found you a hotel where an Elderhostel is in session and the food is cafeteria style?”

“Of course not,” Cabot snapped. The man was a pig. He disliked him intensely. “She’s been terrific,” he lied. “Over-the-top. If you had a few more agents like her…”

Now Wycoff blanched and Cabot decided he’d gone too far. He’d only known Faith for two days, but already he could tell he didn’t want more than one of her in his life. Although having her in his life would be…What am I saying? What am I thinking?

“What I mean is,” he said, starting over, “that I have a request that might sound, I mean right at the beginning, until you understand the concept, sort of unusual.” Since Wycoff’s eyes were darting right and left as if he were looking for help, Cabot barreled right ahead. “I want Ms. Sumner to take the honeymoon with me first.”

Wycoff lumbered up out of his chair. “Mr. Brandon, I must—”

“Drennan,” said Cabot.

“Mr. Drennan.” Wycoff wasn’t a whole lot taller standing up than he had been sitting down. That’s what Cabot would call short legs. “What you suggest is absolutely out of the question. It’s indecent. I could get sued.”

For a minute there, Cabot had thought Wycoff actually cared about Faith, in which case, he’d try to forgive the man for being a pig. Now he didn’t have to. “What I mean is that I want her there to check out the arrangements in person, on site. It’s called ‘advancing’ the event,” he added in case Wycoff needed a buzz word to make things clear. “It would be like standing in for the bride, the way a maid of honor does at the wedding rehearsal. I’d want her to take her complaints to the hotel staff, smooth things out before the actual honeymoon.”

Wycoff was thinking about it. It was a good sign.

“My intended is a film star,” Cabot threw into the silence. “Wonderful woman, but you know how temperamental actresses can be. I just want things to go well.”

“A movie star?”

Those were magic words in Los Angeles, maybe anywhere. “Yes. We haven’t made the announcement yet, or I’d tell you her name.”

The man’s mouth was clearly watering.

“Agent Sumner could do my PR firm a great service,” Cabot said solemnly. “But of course I wanted to get your approval first. Then you can talk to her, see how she feels about it.”

“I assure you, Mr. Drennan, that if I’m convinced it’s a good idea, Miss Sumner will do as I ask.”