never deprive someone as lovely as Tippy Temple of the man of her dreams.
Or the honeymoon of her dreams.
So she relinquished her own happiness. Her heartbreak would be brief, since her daydream hadn’t lasted long. She faced Cabot Drennan squarely and said, “Tippy is not going to want to honeymoon in Reno. She’ll want to go to the most romantic place in the world. Paris. Venice off-season, or a private villa on the coast of—”
“My cell phone won’t work in Europe.”
Faith gazed at him for a long, long moment. “An isolated lodge in the Rockies?”
“No.”
She leaned toward him a bit. “A tiny bed-and-breakfast in Vermont?”
“No.”
“In Napa Valley?”
“No.”
Her voice hardened. “A private car on a coast-to-coast train.”
“No.”
“Williamsburg, Virginia? You can live out your fantasies in Colonial costume.”
He gave her a look of scorn. “No.”
“Rent San Simeon—you know, the Hearst estate about halfway up the coast? It’s a national park, but I think you can rent the bungalows.”
He showed his first flicker of interest. “Hmm. Phone, electricity. We could bring in the hairdressers and manicurists and all the other paraphernalia. Rent another bungalow for the crew. Yeah. Find out how much it costs.”
Feeling hopeful, Faith spun to her computer. Charity had been one of those kids who taught the rest of the family how to use their first computer. Thanks to her coaching—bullying was more like it—Faith was fairly computer-literate. In a few minutes she had her answer.
“No,” Cabot said when he heard the price.
Thoroughly frustrated, Faith collapsed back against her chair. “All right, I’ll get to work on accommodations in Reno, but please do this one thing for me?”
His expression said he’d done all he could just by sitting there listening to her ridiculous suggestions.
“Talk to Tippy about this first.” Faith was sure the angelic Tippy would have a fit, an angelic fit, of course, about going to Reno, and Cabot would be back, humble and subdued, to take a look at that little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont or the isolated lodge in the Rockies.
“Of course. Then we’re through for now?”
Unfortunately. “Yes.”
“You’ll get right to work on it. You won’t wait for Tippy’s answer.”
“No,” Faith lied. Of course she would. And while she waited, she’d finish up the Muldens’ arrangements.
“I’ll call you early tomorrow morning.”
“How early?” Again the look on his face stopped her. Wordlessly she handed him her business card, which listed her office number, home number, cell phone number, pager number and e-mail address. She was grateful Wycoff printed cards for its agents. She’d never be able to memorize all those numbers.
He took the card, got up and started for the door. Faith watched his every movement, the stride of his long legs, the roll of his broad shoulders, the way his hand wrenched at the door handle. She got up to follow his progress across the street, where he swung smoothly into some sort of small, gleaming silver sports car. He looked terrific in sunglasses.
She stood at the window for a long, long moment, unable to keep herself from resuming her daydream of that tall, dark, domineering man turning into so much custard in her hands. Melting under her touch, while she slyly hid the fact that she was melting too, turning into a river of—
“Faith…” It was Mr. Wycoff right behind her, issuing a warning.
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, whirling, “the Muldens. By five.”
She’d just reached her desk when the telephone rang. She heard the scratchy static, the fade-in, fade-out sounds of a car phone. “You forgot to ask me when,” the voice said.
“Cabot?” She knew it was Cabot because the bottom sort of dropped out of her stomach, and she could feel the flush climbing her cheeks, prickling up into her scalp.
“How can you make reservations when you don’t know when the honeymoon is?”
“Well, of course there are the preliminary steps, the general approach, the data-gathering—what are the best hotels and so on and so on.” She was gesturing a lot, she noticed, which wasn’t going to help make her point over the phone.
“Bull. You forgot to ask. We’re getting married on the Fourth of July. Independence Day. You see the irony.”
“Yes,” Faith said faintly.
“And there’s also the fireworks connection. Ought to make good copy.” His voice picked up speed. “Less than six months between now and then. I’ve got a lot to do and I have to know where I’m doing it. So get going.”
He hung up. Faith sat still for a moment, feeling stunned. Good copy? Electricity? Lighting? Were these things a man should be thinking about when he was marrying a lovely, sweet-as-she-was-pretty starlet like Tippy Temple? The one thing Faith knew was that Cabot Drennan was in for a hot honeymoon. But that would make good copy, too.
Focus, Faith. Focus, Faith, Focus…
“Okay, okay,” she muttered to the screen saver, and with considerable effort, turned her mind toward scuba-diving gear for the Muldens.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Cabot was back at the house Tippy had rented in the chic Bel Air district, sitting beside her at the pool. At high noon on a perfect Southern California January day, she was turning Nordic-golden before his very eyes while he sweated in his three-piece suit.
“Reno! Awesome! I feel better already,” Tippy said, popping her chewing gum at him. “Get us one of those honeymoon suites with a round bed, okay? And a Jacuzzi. I’ll look great in a Jacuzzi.”
Tippy kept her weight down to nothing by smoking and kept her cigarette count down by chewing bubblegum in between cigarettes. Just now one of her all-time biggest and best bubbles practically obscured her slim, lovely face. Cabot steeled himself for the eventual…
Pop! “The arrangements are underway,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Gr-r-eat,” Tippy said. Her lower lip began to tremble. “An’ I really appreciate you bein’ willin’ to marry me, after that…that…” Tears welled up.
“Don’t cry, Tippy,” Cabot said, thinking, Don’t start up with the swearing! “It’s my pleasure. I mean, what’s a publicist for?”
One huge droplet slid down her flawless skin as she gazed at him earnestly. “This is going to work for me, isn’t it, Cabot? The publicity? Just a little publicity is all I
