In the taxi ride from midtown, Olivia had gone over and over the scenario in her mind until she was nearly giddy with anticipation. In less than an hour, Rand would come through the door and step into this ideal setting. He probably wouldn’t go down on one knee; that wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d wear that raffish, have-I-got-a-deal-for-you grin as he reached into his jacket for the gleaming black box with the emerald-shaped logo of Harry Winston. Rand was a Whitney, after all. There were perks.
Forcing herself to move with attractive dignity, she paused at the sideboard and checked the angle of the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. The label didn’t need to be turned all the way out. Any practiced eye could pick out the mark of Dom Perignon, just from the silhouette.
She spared only a glance—half a glance—into the mirror above the sideboard, which was actually a tansu chest she’d rented from a furniture warehouse. Mirrors were important in her line of work, not for studying one’s reflection, but for creating light and dimension and ambience in a room, and for checking—oh so briefly—one’s teeth for lipstick. Anything more than that was a waste of time.
Then she saw it—a flicker of movement in the reflection. Even as a scream erupted from her, she grabbed the Dom Perignon by the neck of the bottle and swung around, ready to do battle.
“I always did want to split a bottle of bubbly with you, darling,” said Freddy Delgado, “but maybe you should let me do the honors.”
Her best friend, incongruously good-looking even in a borrowed apron and holding a feather duster, strode across the room and took the bottle from her.
She snatched it back and shoved it into the ice bucket. “What are you doing here?”
“Just finishing up. I got a key from your office and came right over.”
Her “office” was a corner of the sitting room in her apartment, which was even farther downtown. Freddy had his own keys to her place, but this was the first time he’d abused the privilege. He removed the apron. Underneath, he was wearing cargo pants, Wolverine workboots and a tight Spamalot T-shirt. His stylishly cut hair was tipped with white-blond highlights. Freddy was a theater-set designer and aspiring actor. He was also single, well-spoken, and he dressed with exquisite taste. All reasons to suppose he was gay. But he wasn’t. Just lonely.
“I get it. You’ve lost your job again.” She grabbed a cloth from his back pocket and dried the water spots from the spilled ice.
“How did you guess?”
“You’re working for me. You only work for me when there’s no better gig around.” Scanning the apartment, she couldn’t help but notice he’d done a stellar job putting the finishing details on her design work. He always did. She wondered if their friendship would change after she got married. Rand had never liked Freddy, and the feeling was mutual. She hated it that loyalty to one felt like betrayal to the other.
“The funding fell through for the show I was working on. I hate when that happens.” Although he was a talented set designer, Freddy tended to get hired by shows with thin-to-nonexistent financing, and he often found himself abruptly out of a job. Fortunately for Olivia, he was a world-class builder, painter and all-around creative talent. “By the way,” he said, charming her with a smile. “You really outdid yourself with this place. It looks like a million bucks.”
“One point two million, to be exact.”
He gave a low whistle. “Ambitious. Oops, cobweb.” He went to the built-in media shelves and fluffed at a high corner with his feather duster. “And oops again,” he added. “I almost missed this.”
“Missed what?”
“The DVD collection.”
The slender cases and boxed sets were lined up neatly on the shelf. “What about it?” she asked.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You’ll never sell this place with Moulin Rouge in full view.”
“Hey, I liked that movie. Lots of people liked that movie.”
Freddy was a movie buff. A major, annoying-to-the-point-of-snobbery movie-trivia champ. If it had been put on celluloid, Freddy had seen it and probably memorized it, too. He made short work of the DVD shelf, tucking Moulin Rouge into a drawer, along with Phantom of the Opera and Ready To Wear. “They’re turnoffs,” he said. “Nobody wants to make a deal with a guy who watches dreck like that.” He squatted down and peered into a cupboard where the rest of the movies were stored. “Aha. This is much better,” he said.
“Night Nurses From Vegas?” Olivia asked. “Flight of the Penis? No way. You’re not putting porn out where people can see it.”
“Spine out,” Freddy insisted. “It’s subtle, but it says the seller is just a regular guy who doesn’t put on airs. What are you doing dating a guy who watches porn, anyway?”
The discs had been party favors from a bachelor party, but she didn’t feel like explaining that to Freddy. She smiled mysteriously and said, “Who says Rand is the one watching porn?” “Give me a break.”
“I am,” she said, “whether I like it or not. Next time you decide to get back on the payroll, clear it with me.”
“You would have said yes.” He jammed the handle of the feather duster into his back pocket. “You always say yes. That’s another reason I’m here.”
“I don’t get it.”
His customary sunny smile disappeared. He fixed his sincere, brown-eyed gaze on Olivia and sank to one knee before her. Reaching into his apron pocket, he drew out a small black box. “Olivia. I have something to ask you.”
“Oh, please. Is this a joke?” She laughed, but there was an intensity in his gaze that unsettled her.
“I’m deadly serious.”
“Then get up. I can’t take you seriously at all when you’re on the floor like that.”
“Fine. Whatever you like.” With a long-suffering sigh, he stood up and opened the jewel box. Inside lay a pair of silver earrings. From one dangled the letter N and from the other, O. “A friendly reminder to just say no.”
“Come on, Freddy.” She gave him a playful shove. “You’ve had a problem with Rand from day one. I wish you’d get over that.”
“I’m begging you, Livvy. Don’t marry him.” He swept her dramatically into his arms. “Come away with me instead.”
“You’re unemployed.” She pushed away from him.
“Not so. I have the best employer in the city—you. And he’s late, isn’t he? The scoundrel. What sort of man shows up late to pop the question?”
“A man who’s stuck in rush-hour traffic from the airport.” Olivia went to the window and looked down—way down—at the avenue, so crammed with taxis that it resembled a river of yellow sludge. “And nobody says scoundrel anymore. Don’t write him off just yet, Freddy.”
“Sorry, you’re right. Bad, Freddy. Bad.” He made a self-flagellating motion. “It’s just that I don’t want you getting hurt.”
