A Girl by Any Other Name (78 page)

Miss
and not
ma’am
—I liked that and it didn’t hurt that the voice was deep and unmistakably

British, causing every word to drip with an air of intelligence that made it downright sexy. I stared up

at him, completely embarrassed, but also mesmerized. The voice fitted the man. He was young, tall,

with dark hair that was short enough to be professional, but long enough to tug. He had thick lips…the

kind you could kiss for a long time without chapping, and sapphire-colored eyes that were so bright,

they were brilliant.

He looked at me with genuine concern, and I tried like hell to make some sort of feeble attempt

to respond before he got the impression I was mute.

“It was my fault. I lost my balance,” I muttered.

“No, It was my pleasure,” he replied without pause. “Would you care for a seat?”

“No really, I’m fine.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, lowering his voice and it took me a moment to recognize the come on. It

had been so long since I’d heard one. Thankfully, I was smart enough not to read into it. “Are you

dining or staying here?”

“Dining,” I replied, trying to keep my breath steady as his masculine scent washed over me. It

was fresh linen, but heady like musk—clean, pleasant and complexly feral at the same time. He was

still holding my arms in his strong hands, circling his thumbs over my skin, slowly caressing me. I

backed away, trying to maintain what little dignity remained since my graceless act.

“May I escort you?” He held his arm out in a gesture I’d only seen in old movies and episodes of

The Love Boat
. Was he for real? This was New York, not New Amsterdam. Plus, he was like half my

age. Okay, maybe half was an exaggeration.

“Thank you, but I think I can make it on my own now.”

“I’d hate to have this fine establishment’s reputation tarnished by a slip and fall.”

So that was it. He was just being friendly. I wished he hadn’t told me that part.

“I assure you it’s not the floors, but rather my clumsy feet. This hotel is perfect, and the last thing

I would do is mar its pristine reputation.”

He shrugged, smiling for the first time, showing off a set of gleaming white teeth that made him

look menacing…in a good way. “The great advantage of a hotel is that it is a refuge from home life.”

I nodded, matching his smile. “George Bernard Shaw couldn’t have said it better. In fact, I

believe he did say it.”

His grin widened and there was a glint in his eye, as if he enjoyed being called out. “Ah, so

you’ve caught me pilfering another man’s words. Beautiful and smart—an irresistible combination.”

I took in a deep breath, surprised by his arsenal of compliments. “It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Oh, you’re a writer?”

“No, a reader, but books are my business.”

“Then please join me for dinner. We can discuss our favorite Shaw characters, and I can

continue to get lost in those big brown eyes of yours. I think they’re really quite unique.”

He thinks my eyes are unique?

“Brown is the most common eye color.”

“There is nothing common about you.”

“I don’t even know your name,” I whispered, realizing Libby was probably staring at me so hard

she was burning a hole in my dress.

“Let’s remedy that. Victor Ivanov.” He reached out his hand to shake mine.

I clasped it, and as soon he curled his fingers around mine, he flipped my hand before brushing it

under his lips. The surprising act combined with the supple curve of his mouth caused my traitorous

body to shiver.

“Julie Brenan.”

He arched his eyebrow as if awaiting more information.

“Julianne Brenan,” I corrected, not sure why I wanted him to know my full name, but it slipped

out of my mouth, hanging in the thick air between us.

“It’s as lovely as its owner.”

I swallowed, wondering if my underwear would sustain any more of his flattery. “You have a

Russian name and a British accent. There must be a story there.”

“There is, but I would rather use it to lure you into accepting my invitation.”

“I cannot join you, Mr Ivanov. I’m meeting someone.”

“It’s Victor. Who is getting the pleasure of your company tonight? Another man?” he asked with

an amused smirk, but his eyes grew darker and narrowed at the same time. “Boyfriend, husband, or

inconsequential date?”

“Why do you want to know?” I batted my lashes, hoping it looked beguiling and not like

something had flown into my eye. I couldn’t believe I was actually flirting back. If the art of seduction

were equated to paint on a canvas, I’d end up with stick figures at best. He made it easy though, like it

was a natural predisposition of my thought process.

“I prefer to verify the stakes before placing any bets.”

“And what are you wagering, Victor?”

He pulled my hand with just enough force that my feet followed. He bent, tilting his head so his

sweet mouth hovered next to my ear. “That you’ll end up in my bed tonight with your tongue, hands

and all your other delicious parts entangled with mine.”

A flush of heat coursed through my body so fast, I thought I was having a hot flash for a second. I

sucked in some air and tried desperately not to fan myself.

“Do you need a room, because it’s a good thing we’re at a hotel.”

The voice was familiar, but I wasn’t able to register it since I was in a dream-like trance staring

at the beautiful lines of Victor’s face. It was Victor that broke our contact and smiled at Libby.

Damn…I’d actually forgotten about her. I’d forgotten about everything, except for the tall, muscular

man in front of me who filled out a suit perfectly. Libby gave me an impish smile and shook her head.

I knew this little exchange would be the fodder for our dinnertime conversation.

“This is my friend, Libby. Libby, this is Victor Ivanov. He just rescued me from splitting my

head open.”

Victor was completely composed, while I was a quivering mess. He shook her hand, and I was

extremely happy he didn’t kiss it, surprising myself with my sudden possessiveness.

He turned back to me, placing one of my strategically placed wisps of hair behind my ear. “I

was doing a public service. A head as beautiful as yours should be preserved at all costs.”

My heart beat so wildly, I was sure the sound was echoing much like my heels had.

“Nice to meet you, Mr Ivanov,” Libby replied, giving him an up-and-down stare that lasted far

too long to be decent. “Would you care to join us for Julie’s birthday celebration?”

I grimaced, silently cursing Libby for mentioning it, but Victor kept smiling.

“I’m sure he’s busy,” I said, with panic. The last thing I needed was this gorgeous hunk of a man

sitting across from me as I chomped down on filet mignon.

“I’m afraid I must decline, but enjoy your evening. Happy birthday, Julianne. I hope you fare

better with the food than the floors.” He nodded before walking away.

Hearing him say my full name caused a slight pounding in my chest. First, he was eliciting hot

flashes and now he might cause a heart failure. Either way, I might just die a happy woman.

“Did I cock block you?” Libby said, giggling like a schoolgirl, pulling me toward the restaurant

entrance. I laughed so hard my shoulders shook. Fifty-year-old Libby using that expression was

priceless.

“He’s far too young for me.”

She looked back once. “Honey, all you need are a bat and two balls and you have yourself a

game.”

“Libby!” I yelled, but it was lost as she opened the doors to a private room in the restaurant and

a half-dozen people shouted ‘Surprise!’ at me.
Damn, Libby!

I stared at her, in shocked confusion. I recognized the people but they were all Libby’s friends. I

knew why she’d done it though. I’d been a complete recluse since my divorce, and she tried like hell

to get me to socialize again despite my steadfast philosophy to live the rest of my life like a nun

without a church.

“Don’t be mad. You only turn forty once.”

“I’m forty-three.”

“I know, but we have some making up to do.”

I put on my best tight smile and greeted all the guests. Jeff actually stood up to kiss my cheek,

which was awkward. Libby had set us up on a date—my first and only since the divorce. We hadn’t

clicked at all. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t talk about John and I hadn’t. But it was Jeff, who’d

spent the evening rehashing the pain his ex had put him through, as if she’d personally accosted him in

a dark alley, leaving him injured and penniless, to die alone. The bitterness in his voice had reminded

me that I needed to move on before I sounded like that. The problem with men my own age was that

they were all divorced and disillusioned, and if you found one that wasn’t… Well, there was a reason

he’d never gotten married in the first place.

Looking back, in some ways it was good that John and I never had kids. We’d wanted to once,

when we were young and heartsick. We’d both been able to, but ironically, the combination of us

wasn’t compatible. We’d talked about adoption and surrogates, but somehow time had slipped

through the hourglass, and John had found excuses why we shouldn’t. That should have been my first

clue our marriage was doomed to fail. Funny, I could pick up any small tidbit of foreshadowing in any

novel I read, no matter how well the author tried to hide it, but I was completely oblivious when it

came to my own life.

I chatted amicably with everyone, staying on light topics. Almost every single person told me I

looked fetching for my age, which seemed like a backhanded compliment of sorts, but I smiled and

nodded graciously just the same. A great deal of fanfare was made when a bottle of fine wine was

delivered to our table as our dinners arrived, compliments of Mr Ivanov.

Libby studied the label intently, smoothing out her salt-and-pepper hair before holding it up like

a game show hostess. “Jesus, Julie! This is at least eight-hundred bucks.”

I did a double take, knowing she was probably very accurate in her pricing. Her parents had

owned vineyards, and she’d grown up with an education that rivaled most sommeliers.

“Who’s your secret admirer, Julie?” Myrna Kemp asked.

I shrugged. “Just a man I bumped into.”

“I wouldn’t mind bumping into him. He has good taste,” she said, downing her glass.

“It’s more like fell,” I explained. “I fell into him.”

“Lucky fall,” Myrna said with an air of cool, hostile smugness that only women were capable of.

“It’s kind of showy in my opinion,” Jeff replied, studying the bottle.

“You know, Sandy and John are having a wine-tasting party.”

And there was the reason I didn’t like Myrna Kemp. She wasn’t even friends with my ex, but she

was just a little too happy to mention him in my presence. It was as if she enjoyed my discomfort.

“Well, bully for them. Jesus, Myrna, it’s one thing to invite yourself, but there’s no need to be

such a catty bitch.” Libby never was one for mincing words.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she slurred slightly, letting me know she’d had one too many.

“Should we send it back? It’s far too expensive.”

Libby grabbed the bottle, pouring a quick glass. “You can’t. It’s opened, and even if it wasn’t, I

wouldn’t let you.”

“It’s very gracious of him.”

Libby winked at me, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He can afford it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Wealth is a physical trait in some people, like hair color or limp knees. He wears his wealth

well, like some men wear ties. Or were you too busy eyeing his biceps to notice?”

“Very funny.”

“So are you going to thank him personally?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

I gently slapped her arm. “Stop it. I told you, he’s too young.”

“Jesus, Jules, when did you get so boring? You’re not in the grave.”

She stood up then and proclaimed a toast to the table. “To my best friend, Julie. The only person

I know that’s not only read, but claims to understand James Joyce. The kind of girl that can tackle

Faulkner for breakfast and enjoy Kid Rock at lunch. You are an inspiration to us all.”

I held up my glass, clinking it with everyone else’s. Thankfully, Libby was being discreet about

my run-in with Mr Gorgeous. Everyone was having side conversations so Libby and I had privacy to

speak openly.

“I’m not boring. I’m just smart enough not to read anything into it. He was being nice.”

“Being nice would be asking if you were all right. It’s more than that when he’s staring at you

like you’re the last bagel in Manhattan.” Libby should write a book called Libbyisms—she had a

million sayings no one else was likely to get. She leaned in, lowering her voice, “Don’t let his

betrayal impact your self-esteem.”

My jaw dropped. “How can it not? What’s worse than your husband trading you in on your

fortieth birthday for a twenty-year-old?”

Libby smiled crookedly. “He could have traded in for two twenty-year-olds and gotten even

change for his money.”

I almost spat out my wine as a result of my completely unladylike laugh. Libby could always lift

my spirits.