the sheets and closed his eyes. Just for a few minutes.
The next thing he knew the phone was ringing. It was his wake-up call. He jumped out of bed and did a double take. She was still there.
“Anne,” he said, “wake up. It’s morning.”
She sighed softly. It wasn’t possible for anyone to sleep through a wake-up call. She’d wake up any minute now. But he couldn’t wait around until she did. He hurried into the bathroom to take a shower, then came out and dressed carefully but quickly. He couldn’t be late today. From the closet he chose a London-tailored suit with a pin-striped shirt and dark tie. Then went to the living room and briskly wrote a note on his new business stationery.
“Dear Anne,” he began. No, too formal. He crumpled the paper and tossed it in the wastebasket.
“Anne,” he wrote. No, too brusque. Another toss in the basket.
“Hi.” Yes, just the right casual tone.
Thanks for a great evening. We’ll do it again some time when you’re in better shape. Sorry I couldn’t take you home last night but it didn’t work out that way for obvious reasons. I’ve got things to do this morning or I’d stick around and see some more of you. I’ll give you a call. Here’s some taxi money.
Sheik Rafik Harun.
Anne turned over when she heard a door close somewhere in the distance. She tried to open her eyes, but the sunlight that shone through the window was blinding. She pulled the sheet over her head and wondered what time it was. Though she was enjoying a summer off from teaching, she was usually up early, out in her backyard, filling her bird feeders and the birdbath. Funny. She couldn’t hear the chirp of a single robin or the screech of a blue jay reminding her of her obligation to feed them and give them water.
She threw back the covers, sat up in bed and gasped. She was in a huge king-sized bed. The opposite side from hers was rumpled, covers thrown back and an indentation in the pillow. She picked it up and pressed it against her face. There was a distinct manly smell that clung to the soft cotton. What on earth? Where was she? How did she get here? Who had slept with her and, just as important, what was she wearing? It appeared to be a large man’s shirt with several buttons missing. She always slept in a long flannel nightgown, suitable for the cool San Francisco summer nights. But for some inexplicable reason she had slept in someone else’s shirt. And she hadn’t slept alone.
She swallowed hard. Her pulse was racing. “Hello?” she called weakly. No answer. She tried again, this time louder. Silence.
Across the room her pink dress was spread across a chair. It all came back to her in a rush. The wedding. The champagne. The allergy medicine. The flirtatious sheik. But where was she? She’d obviously never made it home.
Wherever she was, she was alone. And she had a splitting headache. She was scared she couldn’t remember what had happened. Even more scared she might remember.
She jumped out of bed, pressed one hand against her aching head and went to the window. She muffled a shriek. She was high above the sidewalk, looking out at the city and the San Francisco Bay. Fortunately no one could look in the window at that height, to see her in a man’s white dress shirt with missing buttons, but she ought to get dressed. She found her strapless bra on the bureau and stared at it. How, where, why…and who?
She took off the shirt and buried her face in it for a brief moment. The smell was pure exotic masculinity the likes of which she’d never smelled before, and it caused her knees to tremble. The smell of the shirt reminded her of someone or something but she couldn’t remember who it was. It made her head hurt more to try to remember. There were no answers to her questions. No one to ask. It was time to get dressed and get out of there. Before someone came back. The someone who’d slept next to her. The someone who belonged to the shirt.
Once she was dressed in her own clothes, she walked into the large living room, picked up the phone and pressed O for Operator.
“Front Desk.”
“Yes,” Anne said. “Where am I?”
“You’re in room 2004 at the Stanford Arms,” said a bored, uninterested voice.
“Oh, of course. Thank you.” The Stanford Arms. She couldn’t afford to stay at the Stanford Arms, a luxurious landmark hotel on Nob Hill. She especially couldn’t afford to stay in a top-of-the-line suite there. That was when she saw the note on the table and read, the words ringing through her head:
A great evening…better shape…see more of you…taxi money…Sheik Rafik Harun.
Who on earth was that? What on earth had happened? She sat on the edge of a large overstuffed chair with her head in her hands and told herself to think. To remember. But it was so hard with her head feeling as if it were caught in a vise. Slowly, slowly it came to her. The handsome groomsman. The flirtatious sheik, driving her home. Why hadn’t he? Could it be that he’d never intended to take her home? That he’d wanted to seduce her, not because she was so gorgeous or desirable, which she wasn’t, but just to add another notch to his belt?
But had he? How would she know? She was a virgin. She had no idea how you felt after a night of lovemaking. She only knew that her head hurt and her whole body felt as if she’d been wrung through a wringer. Someone had removed her bra. Someone had put his shirt on her. Someone had slept next to her. That someone was a sheik. What else had he done? What had she done? The jumble of thoughts, the myriad of possibilities made her face flame. Oh, Lord, what was she going to do now? She was going to get out of there. Then she was going to find the sheik and find out what had happened last night.
She stumbled into the bathroom to wash her face. The mirror was still steamed up. The smell of soap and after-shave still in the air. She’d just missed him. Why hadn’t he woken her up? Because that’s the way it was. After a night of seduction, after the man got what he wanted, he left you a note saying he’d call you, left taxi money and then disappeared. Out of your life forever. Though she’d had no experience of spending the night with strange men, or any men for that matter, she knew that’s how it was.
In this case he’d left his address and phone number on the stationery, as if she’d want to call him! She didn’t want him to call her either. She never wanted to see him again. But she had to. She had to find out what had happened. If she could only find her shoes. And more important, her little clutch purse with her money and her house keys. They weren’t under the bed and they weren’t in the closet. The closet contained only men’s clothes. Very expensive men’s clothes. Not only suits and shirts and ties, but slacks and designer jeans and polo shirts.
She took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the office number on his stationery. Her palms were damp. What would she say exactly?
How dare you take advantage of me?
Where are my shoes and my purse?
What happened anyway?
I never want to see you again!
What would he say? Would he pretend nothing happened? That he didn’t know what she was talking about? She didn’t get a chance to say anything because she got his voice mail and she froze. The things she thought she would say, the questions she wanted to ask, could not be spoken into a machine. They had to be spoken to a person. Sheik Rafik to be exact. She hung up.
There was only one thing to do. She’d call the house where the wedding reception
