Fast & Loose (21 page)

As if to illustrate that, he downed what little was left in his glass, pried hers from her numb fingers, and set both carefully on the tray of a passing waiter. Just as deftly, he swept up two freshly filled ones from another server passing by, as if he’d called ahead to orchestrate the whole thing.

Amazing, she thought. Where she seemed to have absolutely no control over what happened in her life—case in point, here she was, drinking champagne in a room full of millionaires where, scarcely a week ago, she’d been wrestling with the bartender at Deke’s for control of the TV remote—Cole Early seemed to make things happen just by willing them to. She’d never met anyone who was so sure of himself. She wouldn’t be surprised if his horse did win the Derby. He could probably make it happen just by being somewhere in the solar system when the race took place.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed one of the frosty flutes to her. “Really, it’s okay to drink the whole thing. They always have plenty of champagne at these things.”

Lulu gazed at the tiny golden bubbles effervescing in the tall, graceful glass. “I know, but…”

“But what?”

She looked at Cole again. “I’m just not much of a champagne person, that’s all.”

He looked like he was going to say something, but hesitated. He took her glass from her, said, “Don’t move from this spot,” and then turned and took a few steps before dissolving into the swarm of people behind him.

The moment the crowd swallowed him up, Lulu felt her heart rate quicken. The only thing worse than being in a crowd like this was being in a crowd like this alone. She did her best to smile at people and greet them pleasantly, but she felt so conspicuous that she just wanted to disappear the same way Cole had. Except that would mean getting swept up by a massive, writhing tentacle attached to an enormous, bloodsucking, brain-eating, liver-loving—

“This should do the trick.”

At the sound of Cole’s voice behind her, Lulu spun quickly around. He was holding two champagne flutes filled with what looked very much like beer, and he was smiling. At least, he was smiling until he got a good look at her face. Then the smile fell and was replaced by a look of concern.

“What’s wrong, Lulu? Are you okay?”

She nodded quickly, took one of the glasses, and enjoyed a healthy taste. It was indeed beer. And never had she been happier to see one.

“Thank you,” she told him when she swallowed.

“Hey, is everything all right? You don’t look so good.”

Before she realized what he intended, he took a step forward and cupped his hand over her forehead, then her cheek. Then he surprised her by tucking his hand under her hair and curling it over the nape of her neck.

“You feel warm,” he said.

Well,
duh
, she thought. That was because he’d cupped his hand over her forehead, then her cheek. And because he’d then surprised her by tucking his hand under her hair and curling it over the nape of her neck. Of
course
she was warm after that.

“I’m fine,” she said. But her voice was shallow, even to her own ears, and even she didn’t think she sounded okay.

“Let’s walk,” he told her, slipping an arm around her waist.

“It’s okay, I’m—”

“It’s crowded in here,” he interrupted her. “We could both use some fresh air.”

Without awaiting an answer, he wove the fingers of his free hand with hers and tugged her gently through the crowd, until they were back in the hotel lobby. There were considerably fewer people here, and that coupled with the sumptuous decor of gilded baroque ceilings, dark walnut paneling, and jewel-toned Oriental rugs made Lulu feel a little calmer. The quieter atmosphere also went a long way toward soothing her, since the music drifting in from the ballroom was just loud enough for her to hear. Cole guided her to a grouping of sofas and chairs obscured by some potted palms and sat her on a loveseat, then folded himself down alongside her.

When he started to extend a hand toward her forehead again, Lulu dropped her gaze to prevent him from making contact. His hand hung in midair for a few seconds, then slowly fell to his lap. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But you still look a little flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just not a big fan of crowds is all.”

He nodded as if in sympathy, but it was more likely because he just wanted to make her feel better. A guy like him thrived in crowds. Cole Early was just one of those people who was born to the spotlight. He’d probably emerged from the womb squalling, “Hey, everybody! Look at me! I’m gonna be a force to be reckoned with!” Every time she’d seen him on TV, he’d been completely confident, utterly comfortable, thoroughly in his element. As she’d watched him interact with other people tonight, many of them complete strangers, he’d acted as if he’d known them all forever and was delighted to see them again.

Lulu couldn’t imagine being able to do that. Even when she was in her element—which was considerably more elemental than Cole’s—she had trouble with the whole extrovert thing. It was doubtless something that had contributed to her pursuit of art. Certainly she loved what she did for a living and had known since she was an adolescent what career she wanted to pursue. But had she been forced to go out into the world and interact with others on a daily basis to complete her artwork, she wouldn’t be nearly as good at it. She might not have even sought to make a living at it and would have instead made it her avocation. She would have chosen a career doing something that enabled her to remain anonymous and in the background.

Cole dipped his head toward her beer. “Have another sip. It’ll calm your nerves.”

She did as he instructed, not because she thought it would make her feel any less anxious, but because she didn’t want to just sit there looking like an idiot while she collected her wits. Then she realized she’d already collected her wits. Thanks to being away from the crowd—and thanks to Cole sitting next to her and being nice to her—she felt better than she had since her arrival at the gala.

He grinned suddenly, the off-kilter one that knocked Lulu so off-kilter. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

The remark surprised her. “But you said it was important that you made an appearance at this thing.”

“And I’ve made an appearance at this thing,” he told her. “Now I can go.”

“But—”

His grin softened, but somehow the smaller one made her feel even more off-kilter than the off-kilter one did. “It’s okay, Lulu. Really. You’re not comfortable here, and I’ve made all the requisite small talk I need to make. There were only a couple of people here I really needed to talk to, and I found them both right away. C’mon. Let’s go do something fun.”

Although she had no idea why she was balking at his offer of escape, she heard herself say, “You’re not paying me to have fun.”

He laughed at that. “Then consider yourself off the clock.”

BREE LEANED BACK AGAINST HER FRONT DOOR AFTER
Lulu and Cole left, staring at her empty apartment and thinking it somehow seemed even emptier than usual. But even more than that, she was thinking that Cole Early was Lulu’s for the taking, if she wanted him. But Bree could tell her friend didn’t even realize she had him eating out of the palm of her hand. God knew how that had happened, but Bree had seen that look on a man’s face often enough to know what it meant. It was, after all, exactly the sort of look she’d always wanted to win for herself. A look that went beyond the superficial recognition of physical beauty to the realization that there was something massively special underneath it.

Of course, Bree already knew there was something massively special under Lulu’s physical beauty. She’d known that since they were kids, and she knew it better than Lulu, who, for some reason, had never recognized her own potential for anything other than her art. But how Cole Early had discovered it after spending just one evening with her was pretty amazing, considering how Lulu took such pains to make sure no one ever got too close.

Ah, well. That just showed what a smart, observant guy he was, for one thing. And what good taste he had, for another.

Cole Early was going to fall in love with Lulu, Bree marveled. Hell, the way he’d looked tonight, she would have said he was already in love with her. But that was impossible. The guy barely knew her. Then again, Bree would bet good money that was going to change tonight.

She sighed. Lulu, who had never gone looking for a man in her life, was about to win the golden ring—in more ways than one, Bree was thinking. She’d reeled in the great white whale, the pirate’s treasure, the lost city of Atlantis, and every other prize of mythic proportions the sea of men had to offer. And Bree, who had made it her life’s work to land a guy like that, was going to wind up with…

Well. She had dinner with Rufus tonight, she reminded herself. That was something.

It was actually a lot more than something, she thought as she pushed herself away from the door. But she wasn’t allowed to think about how much more. Instead, she made her way to the bedroom to clean up the remnants of Lulu’s extemporaneous makeover. For what it had been worth. It really hadn’t taken much to bring out her features. A swipe of shadow on the eyes, a little mascara, a little bronzer, a little lip gloss. Even her hair had behaved once Bree moussed it. Lulu had so much more natural beauty than Bree did. Bree had always had to work a lot harder to look good.

She didn’t feel it necessary to do so tonight, however. Not because she didn’t think Rufus was worth the effort—
au contraire
—but because Rufus seemed to like the way she looked no matter what.

He really was a good guy.

She did change out of her jeans and T-shirt, though, and into a red and black print skirt and black tank edged with lace along the top. And, okay, she swiped a bit of shadow, mascara, bronzer, and lip gloss across her own features. And she wound her long black hair into a makeshift French twist and held it there with two cloisonné chopsticks. And she stepped into some strappy little black shoes that showed off her calves. It was just because the weather had gotten warmer, that was all. It had nothing to do with wanting to look nice for Rufus.

When she pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the address he had given her, she had to double-check to make sure it was the right one. Then she had to triple-check. Then she had to replay the conversation in her head again to be sure she’d written down correctly the address he’d told her to write down. The house that belonged to the address on the piece of paper just didn’t look like the kind of place Rufus would call home. She’d expected him to live in one of the older, more tired-looking apartment complexes in Crescent Hill. Or else actually live in Clifton, which abutted Crescent Hill and was just as charming but much more affordable. At best, she’d figured he would rent a nondescript duplex. But this? This was none of those things.

It wasn’t a huge house, but it was certainly more than one person needed—a two-story frame Dutch colonial whose façade was painted barn red. Half of the front yard was shaded by a massive sugar maple, and the curved walk was lined by freshly planted red and white begonias. The driveway spilled into a garage behind the house that looked to be the same age, one with doors that folded open vertically instead of horizontally. Sure enough, she saw Rufus’s old, beat-up Wagoneer parked in front of them. This was indeed his place. But it didn’t look like him at all.

Or did it? she asked herself as she strode up the walk to the front door. What did she know about Rufus, really? She’d never tried to get to know him beyond coworker status, had never exchanged any information with him other than the most cursory pleasantries. She’d always told herself it was because she didn’t care enough about him to want more than the most cursory pleasantries. After that kiss the other night, though, she’d forced herself to admit she cared about Rufus a lot more than she should. The reason she’d never asked him more about himself, she realized now, was because she hadn’t wanted to start caring for him even more than that.

Now, as she made her way to the front door, she noticed other things she wouldn’t have thought seemed very Rufus, but told her a lot about him. A white wicker swing swayed at one end of the broad front porch, a porch that also hosted a profusion of potted peace lilies and ferns. When she went to push the doorbell, she noted it was shaped like a small bronze lizard. There was even a welcome mat beneath her feet that read,
WELCOME
.

Maybe he inherited the place, she thought. From a fussy maiden aunt or something. Recently enough that he hadn’t had time to let the place get into disarray. Guys like Rufus too often lived like frat boys, the victims of extended adolescence. Their homes had the barest minimum of boring furniture, were overloaded with electronic and gaming equipment, had pantries empty of anything except chips and Twinkies, and fridges boasting nothing but beer.

But a look through the screen door told her that wasn’t the case here. The inside of Rufus’s house looked to be as charming as the outside. The furniture wasn’t Early American Maiden Aunt, though. It was boxy, masculine, and tailored. She hesitated before pushing the doorbell, giving herself a chance to take it all in. There was a leather sofa the color of good red wine pushed against one sage green wall, worn and buffed from years of enjoyment. Instead of looking ratty, though, it looked comfortable and appreciated. There was a big club chair in the corner to match it, and an overstuffed chair near the fireplace upholstered in a complementary stripe of burgundy, blue, and green. The rug spanning the hardwood floor was what looked like a hand-knotted Persian, and the lamps were low-key bronze. The mantelpiece over the fireplace was cluttered with guy stuff: a model of a tall ship, a bulky antique clock, a half-dozen old books, and a cluster of framed photographs.

The overall mood was comfortable metrosexual. Never in a million years would Bree have guessed this was the environment Rufus came home to at night.

As if the revelation had conjured him from her dreams—or, rather thoughts, she corrected herself, since she didn’t dream about Rufus—he suddenly appeared in the hallway on the other side of the living room, carrying a basket of laundry. He was wearing jeans, but no shoes or shirt, and when he turned to do what looked like closing a door behind himself, his bare back was to Bree. She was about to call out a greeting to let him know she was there, but her mouth went dry at the sight of that expanse of naked flesh. Never had she beheld a more beautiful vista than Rufus Detweiler’s back. Long and lean, taut and tanned, it was a masterpiece of muscle and sinew, bunching, relaxing, flexing…sculpting, molding, carving. There was no two ways about it—Rufus’s back belonged in the Louvre.

He turned toward the front door, and when he saw Bree standing there, he started badly enough that he dropped the basket of clothes. “Jeez, you scared the hell outta me,” he gasped, lifting one hand to the middle of his chest as if to ward off a heart attack, bracing the other against the doorjamb. The action clenched the muscles of his upper arm even more artistically than the muscles of his back, and Bree’s dry mouth was suddenly awash with enough moisture that she feared she would start drooling if she wasn’t careful.

“I, uh, I was just getting ready to ring the bell,” she said lamely.

He nodded, inhaled a deep breath, then bent to pick up the scattered laundry. Bree pulled open the screen door and let herself in, going straight to where he was stooped down, kneeling beside him to help.

“I’m really sorry,” she said as she reached for a stray sock. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “You just surprised me. I wasn’t expecting you for another fifteen minutes. I’m not even dressed yet.”

So she’d noticed. She started to tell him not to bother on her account, but checked herself. “I thought traffic would be worse this time of day,” she told him. “But I lucked out and got all the green lights.”

“Well, I hope you brought an appetite with you.”

She smiled. “Always.”

They finished gathering his things—including an intriguing pair of silk boxer shorts that Bree just
knew
a woman had given to him because men never bought silk boxer shorts for themselves. Especially ones that were decorated with lipstick kisses. What intrigued her more was that they were in his laundry, meaning he had actually worn them, and still did, even after he and the woman had clearly broken up. Did that mean he still cared about his ex? And why did Bree care if he did?

“They were a gift from my sister Camille,” he said.

At first Bree thought he’d read her mind. Again. Then she realized she was holding the silk boxers in a way that indicated she wasn’t planning to let go of them anytime soon.

“Oh,” she said quietly as Rufus plucked them from her hand.

“Camille’s always trying to fix me up,” he said. “She thought racy underwear would help nudge me in that direction.”

“And did it?”

He didn’t look at her as he began to fold them. “You know me, Bree. I’m saving myself for Ms. Right. My underwear hasn’t seen a lot of action for the last two years.”

She started to make some flip comment about how you could lose things if you didn’t use them, then the gist of what he’d said hit her. Like blunt force trauma to the back of the head. Was he saying he was saving himself for
her
? That he hadn’t had sex with anyone since meeting
her
? Oh, surely not.

“I’m sorry?” she said, certain she must have misunderstood.

Instead of replying, he only finished folding the boxers and carefully set them atop the rest of the laundry.

Bree, however, wasn’t willing to let it go that easily. “You’re not serious,” she said. “About the two years, I mean. That was just a joke, right?”

Rufus remained silent.

Unsure why she wanted to belabor the subject, she insisted, “You’re not telling me you haven’t had sex with anyone since you met me.” When he still said nothing, she added, halfheartedly, “Are you?”

He did finally look at her after that, but only for a second. Then he bent and picked up the laundry basket and started carrying it toward the stairs on the side of the living room that had been blocked from her view before. Bree followed him as far as the bottom step, then halted. Rufus continued blithely up to the top, but still didn’t say a word.

Two thoughts occurred to her at once, and she didn’t know which was more troubling. First, that by not answering in the negative, he’d pretty much indicated he was saying yes, he hadn’t had sex with anyone since meeting her. And second, he was going to be putting on a shirt.

Damn. And double damn.

Unable to help herself, Bree started up the stairs, too, pulling herself along the handrail until she hit the top, because her legs, for some weird reason, suddenly felt like Jell-O.

“Two years?” she called incredulously when she reached the top, uncertain which room he’d disappeared into. “You’ve gone two years without…you know?”

There was no answer from any of the three bedrooms off the hallway before her. Or from what looked like a bathroom, either.

“Rufus?” she called out.

“What?” his voice came from the farthest room.

“Can I come back there?”

“Sure.”

She started walking slowly down the hall, then hesitated again. “I mean, you’re decent, right?”

“Of course I’m decent,” he called back.

She took a few more slow steps, then halted at his bedroom door. He was standing with his back to her looking at two shirts lying flat on the bed, as if he were trying to decide which one to put on. Evidently he hadn’t decided on pants yet, either, because he was standing there in the lipstick-kissed silk boxer shorts and nothing else.

“You said you were decent,” she said lamely to his back.

“I am decent,” he told her without turning around. “I’m also in my underwear.”

She gripped the doorjamb and bit her lower lip hard, mostly to prevent herself from crossing the room, because what Bree wanted most in that moment was to stand behind Rufus and…lick him. “Next time,” she said shallowly, “I’ll try to be more specific with my questions.”

“You do that.”

He finally made a decision and scooped up a well-worn polo the color of a pine forest after a hard rain. Then he dragged on a less disreputable-looking pair of blue jeans than the ones he’d had on, stuck his bare feet into a pair of extremely well-worn Top-Siders, and turned to face her.

She remembered then that there was one question she had been specific about that he hadn’t answered. So she asked it again. “Have you really not had sex with anyone since you met me?”

He dropped one hand to his hip and, with the other, reached back to rub his neck in that way men do when they know they have to say something they really don’t want to say. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I really haven’t had sex with anyone since I met you.”

“Why not?”

He dropped both hands to his sides, expelled a restless sound, and looked at her as if she should know the answer to that better than he did. “Because I haven’t wanted to have sex with anyone since I met you, Bree. No one except you.”