“How thoughtful.”
“She’s a good kid.”
The woman nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from his. It was blatantly sexual. There was no misinterpreting her intention. She knew what her gaze was doing to him.
“So, what’s it going to be?”
“Pardon?”
She held up the shawl in her left hand. “Pashmina?” Then she lifted her right hand. “Or cashmere?”
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“At what?”
“Your job. I hope you work on commission.”
“I don’t work here.”
She’d done it again. Surprised him. Nothing much surprised him these days. Being a psychiatrist in New York tended to jade a person. “And yet you know about Himalayan goats.”
She laughed again, turning up the heat. Intentionally? Yes. Oh, yes.
“I’m a virtual font of insignificant data,” she said.
“I am to real knowledge what an onion is to a martini.”
He reached over and took the pashmina shawl from her hand, letting his fingers brush hers. Mistake. The somewhat vague threat in his pants turned dangerous. He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened to him. College? Probably. Not that he didn’t get excited by certain women. But he rarely reacted in such a volatile fashion. He used the shawl to cover his embarrassment. She might know that she was turning him on. She didn’t need to know to what degree.
“I imagine you know quite a bit, Ms….”
She started to answer him, then stopped. She boldly studied him for a long self-conscious moment. Then her smile returned. Only this time there was more than a hint of wickedness in the grin. “Scheherazade.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
“Your real name is Scheherazade?”
She shrugged, and the movement made him aware of the shawl she had around her shoulders. During the whole conversation, he hadn’t even noticed. It was dark gray, and even without touching it, he knew it was pashmina. She’d never settle for second best.
“And who am I supposed to be? Sinbad? Aladdin?”
She took a step toward him, invading his personal space. Which was fine, except that he had some trouble breathing.
“Who do you want to be?”
“Right now I wouldn’t want to be anyone on earth but me.”
“Excellent answer.”
“So what do people call you? Sher?”
“No. But you may.”
He was about to comment, but a single finger touched his lips. An incredibly intimate gesture, something a lover would do. Not a stranger using a false name. Not a woman so beautiful it hurt.
She leaned over until her lips were close to his ear, close enough for him to feel her breath once more. “Why don’t we talk about this Wednesday night. At the Versailles hotel bar. Eight o’clock.”
Then she did the most remarkable thing. She nipped his earlobe. It didn’t hurt. It only lasted a second. But it was the single most erotic thing that had ever happened to him. By the time he was cogent enough to exhale, she was gone. He spun around, just in time to see her slip out the boutique door.
What in hell? Was that for real? Was she?
Wednesday night he had dinner plans with his friends Charley and Jane. He liked Charley and Jane. His dinners with them were the highlight of his week. He never cancelled.
He rubbed the shawl between his hands.
They’d get over it.
FIVE BLOCKS FROM THE BOUTIQUE, Susan slipped inside a coffee shop and found an empty booth. Her heart rate was in the scary zone, pumping with enough adrenaline to jump-start a dead battery. What the hell had she just done?
Okay, he was very handsome. But handsome men were a dime a dozen in Manhattan. Handsome didn’t explain her outrageous behavior. Well, there was that lower lip. Full in just the right way. Exceedingly kissable. And his eyes. Hazel leaning toward green. Bedroom eyes. Knowing eyes. Not to mention long, beautiful hands.
Which was not the point. Not at all. Wasn’t she just bitching about the fact that all men saw were her looks? That she was more than her parts? Did she just pick up a strange man because he was pretty?
No. That he was gorgeous was a bonus, not the reason. She couldn’t pinpoint her real motivation, not in words. It had been more of a feeling. A compulsion. The moment she’d laid eyes on him, she’d felt…something.
The waitress approached on squeaky shoes and took her order for coffee and a plain bagel, no cream cheese, no butter. When Susan was alone again, she got her cell phone from her purse and hit speed dial two.
“Hello?”
“Lee, it’s me.”
“Hey.”
Susan opened her mouth to tell her girlfriend about what she’d done. Only no words came out.
“Susan?”
Why was she hesitating? She told her friends everything. In detail. So what was the problem? This whole thing was nuts.
“Susan, are you all right?”
The concern in Lee’s voice snapped her out of her mini fugue state. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just distracted for a minute. How are you feeling?”
“Huge.”
“This too shall pass.”
Lee sighed. “Yeah? When?”
“In about two months.”
“Susan, what’s going on? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I walked away from a pair of Jimmy Choo mules. I didn’t even try them on.”
“Ahhh. Now I get it. That was very brave. Very empowering.”
“Empowering, my ass. They were the exact color of my duchess jacket.”
“If you still feel that way, go back.”
“No, no. I can be strong.”
“Good girl.”
The waitress came and filled her cup with coffee.
“My
