there’s no need to do that. It’s current. Just send the check to the agency listed on the back. Ah, here comes Ms. Hollis now. Thanks for the information, Irene.”
“Sure, anytime. Good luck…” Irene said, already searching through a thick folder of eight-by-ten glossies, looking for Harry Hampshire’s photograph.
Colin caught up with Holly as she was thanking the dressers and other backstage help. “Purse, coat and out of here,” he whispered into her ear as he took hold of her elbow.
“Hey! What’s the rush?” Holly asked him even as he began steering her toward the door. “I’ve got to talk to Irene, make arrangements for meetings tomorrow. Go find a corner and sit in it, okay?”
“I can’t,” Colin told her, doing his best to look physically ill. “I’m hypoglycemic. I need meat, protein.” He held out one hand, spread his fingers. “Look. See that? I’m starting to get the shakes.”
“Oh, for crying out—okay, okay. Maybe it’s nice to know you’re not quite Mr. Perfect. My coat’s the navy one over there on the rack. The one that’s shorter than all the others. My purse is looped over the hanger. Just let me talk to Irene for a—hey!”
Colin dragged her along to the coatrack, grabbed the navy wool coat, snagged the large tan purse and aimed Holly at the door precisely five seconds before Irene, paging through her packet of photographs, lifted her head and called out, “Hey! Where’d he go? Hey, did anyone see where that good-looking model went?”
Irene’s question was answered by the laughter of two dozen good-looking models….
“So, may I call you Holly? Irene said your name’s Holly.”
“Sure,” Holly said, her head still bent into a strong autumn breeze on the windy streets of Manhattan.
“Okay, and you can call me Harry.”
“Well, duh,” Holly sniped, shooting him a quick look. “I wasn’t going to call you Mr. Hampshire, if you’re going to call me Holly. God, that’s a lot of H’s, isn’t it?”
“I think we’ve pretty much cornered the market, yes,” Colin said, then sort of sighed as Holly bent her head once more, kept walking at a fast clip that had more to do with getting her where she was going than taking a leisurely stroll and getting to know each other better as they walked along. “Are you in some sort of hurry, Holly?” he asked as she couldn’t seem to stand still at the corner, waiting for the light to change so they could head across the avenue. She kept looking up at the light, sort of dancing in place.
“You’re hypoglycemic,” she reminded him. “You’ve got to eat. Last thing I want is for you to keel over here on the pavement. I’d get trampled by all the women wanting to give you mouth-to-mouth.”
“Oh, right,” Colin said, smiling slightly, trying to look sick. This was pretty hard to do, considering that the last time he could remember being ill was in the fourth grade, when he’d broken out in spots and couldn’t play the second king in the school’s Christmas pageant. He’d always thought he’d missed a great opportunity to launch a stage career.
“So, are you feeling any better?” Holly asked as the light turned and they headed across the intersection along with half the population of Manhattan.
“A little better. I…I, um, must have just needed some air.”
“But you’re still hungry?”
“Still hungry,” he answered with a smile as Holly turned into a small restaurant tucked between two up-scale shops.
He looked around the restaurant, saw that customers put their orders in and collected them at the same service bar, then carried them to one of the small tables lining one side of the long, narrow room. “Hamburger? Mustard and ketchup? You go find a table, and I’ll bring everything to you.”
“No, you go find a table and sit down before you fall down. I’ll order for both of us.” She held out her hand, palm up. “You’re paying.”
“I admire a woman who can still accept money from a man, even while she’s ordering him around.” Colin fished in his front pocket, pulled out a twenty. “Hamburger, fries, ice water and no onions. Just ketchup and mustard. I’m hoping to get lucky later, maybe steal a kiss from a lovely lady.”
Holly took the twenty carefully, using only the tips of her fingers to touch a corner of the bill. “Yeah, well, good for you. Me, I’m having onions.”
Colin opened his mouth to say something, he wasn’t sure what, but Holly was already gone, running to get to the counter before a group of six men who had just come in behind them. That left Colin to locate and commandeer the last free table in the restaurant.
He sat down, used a paper napkin to wipe crumbs from the cracked and scarred wooden surface of the table, then propped his elbows on the wood, rested his chin in one hand.
What in hell was he doing here? Hell, what the hell was he doing, period?
Colin hadn’t been back to the States for more than a quick visit in nearly three years, enjoying his job setting up one of his second cousin Max Rafferty’s overseas holdings, sticking with it until it was up and running properly. Since that holding was in Paris, being overseas hadn’t been much of a sacrifice, although he did miss Max’s second wedding to Julia, and had only met her later, when she and Max had flown to Paris for a belated honeymoon.
He’d liked Julia immediately, as anyone who could keep Maximillian Rafferty in line had to be one very terrific lady, and his first stop after going through customs at JFK had been to drop in at the Rafferty condo on Park Avenue. Max had already left the building, and the housekeeper had told Colin that Julia wasn’t home, either, so he’d gone off to his hotel, unpacked…and saw the notice for the Sutherland showing in the main ballroom of that same hotel.
A few smiles, a few General U.S. Grant’s greasing the right palms, and Colin had been directed to the staging area, where he’d hoped to surprise Julia.
Okay, so that’s how he’d gotten there. Now he had to figure out how he’d gotten from there to here, here being sitting in a dingy dive, waiting for his first uniquely American hamburger in too many months.
He was also sitting here waiting for Ms. Holly Hollis, just about the least likely woman he’d ever thought he’d be attracted to, even notice.
But there was something about her. Maybe he’d always harbored a secret fantasy for being bossed around by a pint-size female dictator. Maybe it was the way she’d looked as she stood on a stool to tie his tie, that crazy pink boa wrapped around her neck as she blew at the feathers to keep them out of her mouth, her eyes crossing slightly as she tried to get the knot set correctly.
Or maybe he just wanted to get a little of his own back because she’d mistaken him for some no-show boob named Harry Hampshire. A male model? Did she really think he was a male model?
Good old Harry was in for a surprise, when he got his paycheck for a day’s work he didn’t do. That was rather amusing. What wasn’t amusing was that someone might see him on that television show next week, going by the name of Harry Hampshire, parading around a runway in a tux, kissing women.
He’d have to tell everyone he’d lost a bet. Or won it.
Colin
