March, the magic would be over, when the white gave way to gray, but for now, at this height, it was all magic.
His gaze moved in the direction of the Versailles hotel. He’d never been there, but he’d read about it. It was one of the new boutique hotels, catering mostly to the European trade. Was he really going to meet her there? A complete stranger? What if she was a reporter, and all this was a trick to get some information on a client?
No, that wasn’t possible. No one could have known he’d walk into that store, and she must have been there before he’d arrived.
His hand went to his ear, and he rubbed the lobe where she’d bit him. Talk about leaving a mark. Although there was no sign of her teeth—it had been a gentle nip—the echo of the startling move had stayed with him all night. He closed his eyes, remembering his first impression of the woman.
She was a class act. The shawl wasn’t the only sign. Her makeup was subtle, but perfect. Her skin pampered. The diamonds in her earrings looked like the real McCoy. But more than that, the way she carried herself, her confidence, her audacity, bespoke the kind of rearing and education that came with old money. He’d seen it often enough to recognize the signs.
He had a few patients who were the same type, but he had the feeling none of them were in her league. He wasn’t, either. Not that he was complaining. His practice had flourished, his portfolio had done very well, and he was one of the fortunate who could actually afford to live in Manhattan. To live well, that is.
He realized he was rubbing his ear again, and he tried to catalogue what else he’d noticed about Scheherazade. Ridiculous name, but intriguing, too. Of course he knew the story. The princess Scheherazade had been sentenced to death by a wicked king, but she held the king spellbound with her nightly tales, always stopping before the denouement, so he was compelled to let her live another day.
Is that what his mystery woman was going to do with him? Tell him tales? Keep him in suspense? The idea appealed. He liked the element of surprise. He hadn’t realized what a rut he’d been in until yesterday at that boutique. Sher had shoved him out of his comfort zone. Quite firmly.
Even though his night had been filled with feverish dreams, he felt more alive today than he had in years. Eight o’clock tomorrow night. He couldn’t wait.
SHE WASN’T GOING.
The whole idea was ludicrous.
Besides, he wasn’t going to show.
Susan looked at her reflection in the mirror, although she couldn’t see too much of herself. Not with the mint-green mud mask on. But her eyes were clear, and that’s what she studied. They were the window to the soul, right? So what was her soul trying to tell her? Yes? No?
Dammit. Her eyes weren’t talking. She left the bathroom and climbed onto her bed. The one place on earth she was perfectly at peace.
Yes, she knew she had too many pillows. But she didn’t care. It was her bed, and she could make it any way she pleased.
Her shoulders sagged with the realization that no one cared one whit about her pillows. She’d reacted to a long-ago conversation with a man she couldn’t stand. Larry had hated the pillows. They’d fought. Over and over. Eventually, she’d given in and tossed the pillows. Her gesture hadn’t saved the marriage.
Nothing could have. Not counseling, not acquiescence, not a change in her outlook. The man had wanted to milk her dry. Period. There was no love there. Sadly, there had never been love, at least not from him. Not with Larry or any other man.
She wished she had a Trevor. Lee’s idea a year and a half ago to add sex to their friendship had turned out to be the best move Lee had ever made. Their marriage was a wonder to behold. Friends. Lovers. Mates.
She flipped the TV on, shaking herself out of her reverie. It wasn’t like her to be so morose. So fatalistic. Sarcastic and cynical? Sure. But mopey? Not her style.
Another click of the remote control and she paused at an old black-and-white Bette Davis movie. Now, Voyager. It had been one of her favorite films. She loved the way Bette Davis transformed from the ugly duckling into the beautiful swan. But as she watched the ending, Bette and Paul Henreid talking about their unrequited love, she shook her head. And then, the famous last line:
“Oh, Jerry, don’t let’s ask for the moon. We have the stars.”
“Hogwash,” Susan said to the screen. “You deserve the moon.” She snuggled against her pillows.
“We all deserve the moon.”
Screw it. She would go. In fact… Her phone was in her hand and she called the hotel. She debated for a moment after the reservation clerk asked if he could help. Then she threw caution to the wind and booked a suite.
Once she hung up, her nerves got busy, illustrating in their own unique way that while her mind had confidently moved forward, heeding the call to adventure, her body was trying like hell to shrink back and stay in the cave. Her life might be dull and ordinary, but it was safe. Too safe.
She was going. Tomorrow night. To a rendezvous with a beautiful stranger. Holy cow.
“WHAT’S WITH SUSAN?”
Lee Templeton dug into her crème brûlée with gusto, even as she bemoaned her current state of hugeness. After savoring her spoonful, she looked up at Katy, who was even larger, given she was eight months along. “What do you mean?”
“Have you talked to her lately? She’s being very odd.”
“How can you tell?”
Katy giggled. “Odd for her. She’s doing something tonight, but she won’t say what.”
“Huh.” Lee put her spoon down and took a big swig of milk. She shuddered a bit, not ever having been a big milk fan. But she’d do anything for her baby. Her hand went protectively to her stomach.
“You think it’s something about Larry?”
“I don’t know.” Katy ate a delicate piece of arugula, splashed with a hint of balsamic vinegar.
Lee frowned with disgust. Pregnant women were supposed to have cravings for weird things. Sweet things. Not arugula, for heaven’s sake. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, remembering about Susan.
“Yeah? When’s the last time she tried to keep a secret from us?”
Lee didn’t have to think long. “That time she was dating that guy. That poet.”
Katy’s right brow rose.
“You think she’s seeing someone?”
“Well…”
“God, remember how awful he was? It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t written such terrible poetry.”
“Or if he hadn’t been so damn proud of his abject poverty.”
“Or if he hadn’t had a face like a fireplug.”
Lee grinned. “We’re horrible.”
“No. We’re
