Arm Candy

“Yes, dear. So tell me about her.”

He smiled, remembering his meeting with Jessica, the look of her. “She’s a fine-looking woman. Kind of exotic, but in an old-fashioned way. Like a Renaissance painting.”

“Reubens?”

He shook his head. “No, more like a Botticelli. Complete with red hair, pale skin. Damn.”

“Okay, so we know you like that part of her, now what about the part above the neck?”

“That part’s just as intriguing.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Really?”

He reached over to the little hand-painted table where, next to the fruit bowl, he found a lemon muffin. Homemade, of course. His mother loved to cook what she grew. After an enormous bite and some coffee, he said, “She’s bright. Running a media campaign for a major new cosmetics firm. She’s all career, and determined to top out at CEO.”

“And that’s intriguing how?”

“Come on, Mom. Not everyone can be as well balanced as you.”

“No, but they can be a little balanced. I already assumed she had no real life. If she had, surely she wouldn’t have had to hire the likes of you.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty focused. But that works in my favor. I figure she’s not going to get coy with me, or have a secondary agenda. I’ll ask. She’ll answer.”

“And what if she doesn’t have the answers?”

“I’ll keep looking. But I’ll have tried.”

Colleen sighed, as she ran her hand through her softly graying hair. “We always encouraged you to go out into the field, to learn from experience. Just don’t let your hopes get too high, okay?”

“Look, even I know there aren’t going to be pat answers. But there are going to be clues. Directions. Hints. I think, if I can just talk about it with no games, I can move to the next level.”

“Don’t you need someone on this level to be able to move on to the next?”

“I’m hoping it will help me find the kind of woman I can move on with. Even you have to admit I’ve done a lousy job in my previous selections.”

“Oh, honey. Lousy is being kind. But that’s mostly because you let your little head do your thinking for you.”

“It’s a good thing I ceased being embarrassed by you years ago.”

“I know. And I appreciate your indulgence.”

“So, you’ll take care of Mercy?”

“The cat hates me, but yes, I will.”

He leaned over, kissed her cheek, then went back to his muffin. “Great.”

“And you’ll tell me what you’ve learned?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Oh, goody.”

He stood. “I’ve got to run. If you need me, I’ll have the cell.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Take some muffins.”

He grinned. “I planned to.”

“Take some vegetables, too.”

“In your dreams.”

He squeezed her hand and headed for the kitchen, where up above the sink was a picture he’d taken years ago, of his father and mother. They looked so damn happy.

THE HOTEL SUITE was straight out of a Fred Astaire–Ginger Rogers movie. It was all silver, white and high deco, right down to the crown molding. Huge by any standard, but especially for Manhattan, it had to be priced to the sky. If she’d made the reservations, she’d have been several floors down in a single, but that wouldn’t have been the perfect setting for a seduction, would it?

Owen definitely had a screw loose, and for the first time since she’d met with Dan, she felt fine about the devil’s bargain she’d gotten herself into.

Her basic premise still held true—that if Owen saw she was involved, witnessed it with his own eyes, he’d back the hell off. What was new to the equation was Dan’s “quest,” and worse, her attraction to the man.

She waited while the bellman put her big suitcase on the stand, then she tipped him outrageously, fully expecting to have to tax the hotel staff to the limit during her stay. He thanked her, gave a slight bow and left her to unpack.

Once alone, she fought the temptation to lie down on the puffy white comforter, to bury her head in the assemblage of pillows and sleep for three days. Instead, she unzipped her bag and went methodically through the contents, storing them in her typically organized fashion. Halfway through the job, she remembered that she was going to be sharing the space. Not only did that make her pause, it led her to open the door to the minibar and pull out a small bottle of Chardonnay.

Sharing a room with a total stranger. That had to be right up near the top of her own personal list of idiotic moves. Okay, so Glen vouched for him, but what did that mean? This was the most important week of her life, and she couldn’t afford to move her eye from the ball. So what did she do? Hire the most attractive man she’d met in years to pretend to be her lover. No distraction there. No, sir.

The problem was, he fit her criteria to a tee. Which was unprecedented. She’d never seen a man who had it all: the looks, the brains, the wit, the strong hands, the taste in clothes. Her only hope was getting to know him. No way he was everything he purported to be. Impossible.

He was undoubtedly narcissistic. Given his quest, probably chauvinistic, too. All she had to do was play it cool until he let his true colors shine, and voila, the problem would be solved.

It’d better be solved.

She poured her wine into one of the crystal glasses set on a silver tray by the wet bar, then sank down into the white-satin chair next to the window. Her view was of Central Park, but she stared without seeing it as she thought of the daunting tasks in front of her.

Tomorrow started the festivities, beginning with a makeover party for ten lucky radio listeners, to be held at Bloomingdale’s. All using New Dawn cosmetics, of course. Tomorrow night was the grand-opening party at the Panorama, the newest and most highly sought-after nightclub in the city.

Then there was the dessert-and-jazz party at the Rainbow Room, an evening cruise on the Hudson River, Geocaching in Central Park, and finally, the banquet right here at the hotel. By the end of this little adventure, she’d be ready for the funny farm, but in the meantime, she had to make sure the media was happy, the models showed up and acted like civilized human beings, the celebrities were catered to, and that every detail of every event was taken care of with no muss and utterly no fuss.

Thank God for Marla. And Marla’s troops. Jessica was really lucky to have them. And she mustn’t forget that every event had a professional planner in charge of it. Which did comfort, but didn’t assuage, the final responsibility, which lay directly on her shoulders. Sure, it was Owen who signed the checks, but everyone in the business knew who was really in charge.

This was her ticket. Her chance to soar. If she blew it, she doubted her career could recover. If she succeeded, she’d be well on her way to the dream.

Which meant there was no room at all for Dan in any other capacity but paid help. Maybe it wasn’t too late to tell him she’d changed her mind. She could call up an escort service and hire some lovely hunk of maleness, preferably someone gay, who would be silent for a fee.

She’d put Dan’s phone number in her purse, and as she rose to fetch it, there was a knock at the door.

She crossed the white marble floor, then looked through the peephole. Owen. Dammit. After a deep breath, she opened the door, but not very far. “Owen, hi. What’s up?”