Chasing Harry Winston (30 page)

“Ohmigod. Oh. My. God.” Adriana had completely abandoned all attempts at coolness, but she didn’t care.

“I know! It’s phenomenal. Listen, I’ve got to run to a meeting, but I’m going to have my assistant call you to make all the arrangements for your photo shoot. We’re closing the March issue in two weeks, so it’s going to be a rush, but timing-wise it’s nothing we haven’t done before. Sound good?”

“Perfect,” Adriana murmured.

“Oh, and Adriana? Jack called last night to ask me out for this weekend, and—”

This snapped Adriana out of her reverie. “Last night? A Thursday? Who does he think you are? Some loser who just sits around and waits for him to call? You absolutely cannot—”

Mackenzie laughed. “Can you just shut up for a minute? I told him I was completely booked all weekend even though the only thing on my entire schedule is lunch with my mother on Saturday, and”—she paused here and took a breath—“he said he wasn’t hanging up until I gave him a night next week that worked. We’re going out Tuesday. He already made reservations.”

“
Querida!
I’m so proud of you. You’re ready to write the column yourself!” Adriana was genuinely pleased at this development. Not only did it speak volumes to her own skills and advice, but from what little she knew about Mackenzie, it seemed like she was a woman deserving of a solid, adoring man. This was all good news.

Mackenzie laughed, sounding so happy and excited that Adriana was almost a teensy bit jealous. She remembered what it was like to get that excited over a new guy.

“No, I’ll still leave that up to the professional. But it might make a good introduction for your first column: a little true-story vignette about how your magic works on even the most embittered, stubbornly single magazine editor in all of Manhattan.”

“Previously embittered, soon-to-be-not-single magazine editor,” Adriana reminded her.

“Fair enough. Okay, I’m running. Talk later?”

“Sounds good. Thank you soooo much,
querida
. Ciao!”

Adriana collapsed into the couch and motioned for Otis to join her. He gave an obliging little chirp and hopped to Adriana’s lap. He nudged her hand for a grape, but Adriana was already dialing again.

“Leigh Eisner’s office,” her bored-sounding assistant said.

“Hi, Annette, it’s Adriana. Can you put Leigh on for me, please?”

“I don’t have her right now. Can I have her return?”

Adriana was not in the mood to deal with the assistant’s lingo.

“Well, my dear, you’ll have to get her. It’s an emergency.”

“Hold, please,” Annette said curtly.

Leigh’s exasperated voice came on the line a moment later. “An emergency?” she asked. “Please don’t tell me you’re calling because everywhere is sold out of your favorite Molton Brown body wash again. Wasn’t that last week’s ‘emergency’?”

“You are not going to believe this,” Adriana sang, ignoring Leigh entirely. “You are really not going to believe this.”

“Ohmigod! Are they all out of their scented candles, too? What’s a girl to do?” she squealed.

“Would you please shut up? I am calling you as a friend, not a frustrated shopper. Silly me figured you might be interested to hear that I might be featured in the March issue of
Marie Claire
.”

Leigh yawned audibly on the other end. “Mmm, really? Congratulations. This will make it, what, like the eleven hundredth time they pick up one of your modeling shots? Or do you mean the party pages? In that case, it must be the eleven thousandth time.”

“You’re being a bitch,” Adriana stated. “If you would just stop talking, I’d tell you that it has nothing to do with headshots or party pictures. I’m going to be a columnist.”

Leigh stopped giving whispered instructions to her assistant midsentence and was absolutely quiet for a full twenty seconds. “You’re what?” she finally asked.

“You heard me. I’m going to be a columnist. A regularly featured columnist, in the print edition. It’s going to be called ‘The Brazilian Girl’s Guide to Man Handling,’ and it’s going to give advice on how to deal with men.”

“You mean seduce them.”

“Yes, of course I mean seduce them! What else do women want to know? It’s not going to be easy, and I, for one, don’t think they could’ve found a better person for the job.”

“Me, neither,” Leigh murmured. She sounded not just sincere but impressed, and Adriana couldn’t keep from smiling. “Adriana, honey, I don’t think it’s too soon to say it, and I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life: A star has been born.”

Emmy sighed deeply as she turned the faucet off with her foot and closed her eyes, allowing her chest and legs to submerge completely. She’d been in the hotel tub for thirty minutes already, alternately dozing and reading under a relaxing stream of hot water that she drained and refreshed every few minutes. She didn’t care that her hands were pruning, or that the sheen of sweat on her forehead had begun to run down the sides of her face, or that she was being quite irresponsible, environmentally speaking. What did any of that matter when she could lie there on New Year’s Day after a long, wonderful night of drinking and lovemaking, and feel this peaceful and relaxed?

His name was Rafi something or other, and he was a dream. Emmy had been shocked to see how many things had changed in the fifteen years since she’d been to Israel, but thankfully the magnificence of their men wasn’t one of them. If anything, they were even more adorable now, all the young strapping soldiers in uniform and their handsome older brothers who seemed in far better shape at thirty or even forty than their American counterparts. Everywhere she turned, she was met with olive-skinned, dark-haired, beautifully muscled specimens, and among this embarrassment of riches, Rafi was one of the finest.

They’d met two days earlier, a Thursday, at a Tel Aviv restaurant called Yotvata. It was an institution in Israel, a casual, happy place right on the city’s beachfront promenade that specialized in massive, creative salads and delicious fruit-and-yogurt smoothies. All of the restaurant’s ingredients came directly from its namesake kibbutz on the Jordan-Israel border in the Aravah Valley.

Emmy hadn’t needed to think twice when Chef Massey requested she submit a list of lesser-known areas and cuisines that might serve as inspiration for the new upscale lunch place he was opening in London. She hadn’t eaten at Yotvata since the last time she’d been in Israel—at age thirteen for her own bat mitzvah, and then two years later for Izzie’s—but she still remembered it as some of the freshest, tastiest food she’d ever had. She outlined the restaurant’s dairy focus and the chef’s insistence on using only those fruits and vegetables grown organically.

Chef Massey loved it and asked her to accompany him on a scouting trip to Israel, where they would concentrate on expanding all of his current salad menu selections beyond the usual Caesar/Greek/ mixed green in balsamic vinaigrette trifecta, and also explore different kinds of Middle Eastern cuisine. As far as Emmy was concerned, anything that got her out of New York City on New Year’s Eve was fine, and if her destination was Israel, it was a huge bonus. What she hadn’t counted on was Chef Massey bailing on their trip at the last moment, claiming he needed to be with his family when everyone really knew he was meeting his Pakistani model girlfriend in St. Barths. Emmy had feared her own trip was in jeopardy, but he’d sent her anyway.

Emmy had walked into the restaurant, expecting to endure a late lunch with the Israeli version of a typical American PR girl: well dressed, fast-talking, irritatingly upbeat. Instead she was escorted to a window table where she was joined by a Josh Duhamel clone with green eyes and the sexy swagger common among Israeli men. It took Emmy three seconds to notice that he was not wearing a wedding ring—a mandatory check but indicative of nothing—and another five minutes to establish that he didn’t have a girlfriend.

“No girlfriend?” Emmy had cooed, aware but not caring that she sounded positively cougar-like. “There must be so many pretty young things running around the kibbutz.”

Rafi laughed, and Emmy knew she would sleep with him.

Which she had, that night, and the morning after that, and the evening after that. They’d had sex exactly six times in the past day and a half, so often and enthusiastically that Emmy insisted on seeing Rafi’s driver’s license for herself.

“My god, you’re not kidding. Nineteen-seventy-eight. I have never in my life met a man over twenty-one with that kind of stamina.”

He laughed again and kissed her belly. “It is a special skill,” he said in an accent straight out of a movie.

“I’ll say so,” Emmy said, stretching out like a satisfied puppy atop the fluffy duvet, blissfully unselfconscious despite their nakedness. “Want to order breakfast in bed? I’m on an expense account.”

He feigned horror and wagged his finger in reprimand. “The Dan Hotel is good for many things…carpets, pillows, a beautiful pool, yes? But it’s a crime to order breakfast from their kitchen when Yotvata is only steps away.”

“I know, but those steps require me to shower and get dressed and go out in public.” Emmy stuck out her bottom lip and widened her eyes in the most dramatic pout she could manage. “Do you want me to get out of bed?”

“No, no. Just wait here.” He disappeared into the bathroom.

Emmy heard the water running and couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed that he hadn’t invited her to join him. She had just lifted the phone to order room service when Rafi reappeared.

He held open a fluffy hotel robe and wrapped it around her with a huge hug before leading her to the bathroom.

“For you, madam,” he said, waving expansively. The tub was filled to capacity with steaming water and vanilla-scented bubbles; a half-dozen lit votives encircled the marble perimeter.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Emmy allowed her robe to drop from her shoulders to the floor and climbed into the tub. She let her feet acclimate and then crouched slowly until she was sitting. When she was finally able to submerge her entire body in the hot water, she closed her eyes and groaned with pleasure. “This feels amazing. Come keep me company.”

“No, no.” He wagged his finger and leaned over to kiss her lightly on the lips. “This is only for you. I will be back in half an hour with a feast.” Another kiss, and he was gone.

And so she lounged. And soaked. And refilled. He took longer than a half-hour, but Emmy didn’t mind. It gave her time to slather on some of the hotel-provided vanilla moisturizer and arrange herself prettily in the chemise she’d purchased the day before at a little lingerie boutique on Sheinken Street. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought anything sexy or even cute, but she couldn’t resist this when she’d spotted it in the window. The softness of its pink jersey material felt amazing when it clung to her body, and the sheer green lace scalloping around the neckline made it comfy, casual, and sexy all in one.
Adriana would be so proud
, she thought, smiling. She’d welcomed 2008 in the arms of a sexy stranger, and she was feeling pretty damn good about it. By the time Rafi reappeared with bags in hand, she was somehow, miraculously, ready for another round.

“Come back to bed,” she purred, letting him set down the bags before she pulled him on top of her.

“Emmy, you need food,” he said but kissed her back.

They had sex again, and even though they were both too exhausted to finish, it still felt wonderful. Rafi wouldn’t let her get out of bed to help unpack the food, so she just fell back into the pillows—the bed was way too plush, almost like a hammock, but who was she to complain?—and watched him carefully spoon different salads, breads, and yogurts onto their plates. He set everything down on the bed and placed a mixed-fruit smoothie and a cup of coffee on the nightstand and handed Emmy silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin.

“Bon appetit,” he said, holding his coffee up to Emmy’s.

“B’tayavon,”
she answered with a grin.

Rafi’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “We spent two full days together and you didn’t tell me before that you speak
ivrit
!”

“That’s because I don’t speak
ivrit
—I went to Hebrew school like every other Jewish American kid and my teacher was this enormously fat woman who taught us lots of food words in addition to the prayers.”

“What other words do you know?”

“Hmm, let’s see. I know
m’tzi-tzah.
”

Rafi laughed and nearly spit out a mouthful of food. “Your Hebrew school teacher taught you the word for
blowjob
?”

“No, that one was all Max Rosenstein.” Emmy sipped her smoothie. “How do you know English so well? And please save the ‘Americans-are-the-only-ones-who-don’t-learn-foreign-languages’ bit, please.”

“But it’s true,” Rafi protested.

“Of course it’s true; I’m just sick of hearing it. So? How did you learn to talk like this?”

He shrugged and looked a little shy. “My mother’s American. She met my father while she was studying abroad and then just stayed. Considering that, I should actually speak much better, but she almost never talked to us in English since my dad couldn’t understand much and she wanted to learn Hebrew.”

“Incredible,” Emmy said.

“Not really. You should hear my sister. She lives in Pennsylvania now. English, Hebrew, and a Pennsylvania Dutch accent, all rolled into one…”

Emmy pulled the covers up around her as Rafi explained the ins and outs of his family, how he was the only one still living in Israel. She tried to pay careful attention, but with each additional word he uttered, she became more and more convinced that she liked him. He wasn’t husband material, of course—she wouldn’t even go there anymore—but he seemed like a pretty decent guy. And with this realization came the old creeping insecurities. Did he like her back? Would they see each other again in the States? Was he going to change his mind about everything and vanish, like Paul had that night in Paris?

“Very interesting,” Emmy murmured. “It all makes perfect sense, but how did you become the resident PR person? Because I have to say, you don’t exactly fit the mold.”