Private Relations (10 page)

“I never get tired of looking at you,” he said, his gaze traveling slowly down her naked body. “You’re more beautiful than ever.”

She stepped into the bath slowly, aware that her nip
ples were puckering under his ardent gaze. Ignoring him as best she could, she let the water swirl around her lower legs, mildly annoyed that the temperature of the water was exactly the way she liked it. She sank down into the water. The tubs were amazing. It was like sitting in a lounger, but with bubbling water soothing her tense muscles and a view of Manhattan out the window. The candles flickered softly as Peter passed her champagne.

He shucked his own robe and she noted that his body was just as gorgeous as it had been last night. Even as she gazed at him, arousal took hold of them both. She felt desire in her own body, watched it rise in his.

“Tough to be a man,” he said when her lips quirked. “All your thoughts show.”

He seemed more cheerful than embarrassed and certainly didn’t hurry to bury himself under bubbles. He took his sweet time sitting at the other end of this tub for two. Piper had spent what was probably an insignificant amount for Piper but had seemed like a lot to Kit on doing something or other so the tubs were almost silent. “I can’t stand being in a tub that sounds like you’re in a steam train roaring through a tunnel, you know?” Piper had said. At the time, Kit had thought it was another rich girl princess thing, but now that she was in the tub, the near silence was fantastic.

When Peter was settled back, bubbles burbling around his shoulders, he gazed over at her and raised his glass.

“To old friends,” Kit said, before he could speak.

“To old friends,” he echoed solemnly. “And new love.”

She’d taken a sip of the crisp champagne after she’d spoken, so his addendum to the toast caught her by surprise, making her swallow the wrong way so that she spluttered and choked.

“Who said anything about love?” she gasped, blinking. Her voice sounded hoarse.

“What’s wrong with love?”

Was he insane? “Nothing. I’m all for it. Just not with you.”

“But we made love, last night.”

“There are a lot of terms in common usage to describe what we did last night.”

“One of them, and I’m willing to bet it’s the one you most commonly use, is making love.” His freshly pedicured toes trailed up her leg to her knee. She pretended not to notice.

“What’s your point?”

“I’m saying there’s a lot of history between us, and maybe some love.”

She narrowed her gaze. “You said ‘new love.’”

He gazed at her earnestly. “I’m feeling a lot of things since I found you again. I love…” She glared at him so hard he ought to be tossed out, wet and sudsy, onto the carpet… “I love who you’ve become.”

“I love the way they do yellowfin tuna at Nobu.”

“You didn’t used to be this tough.”

“No,” she said, sipping more champagne. “I didn’t. Is that part of the new me you love?”

“Sometimes.”

He put his glass down on the handy indentation on the side of the tub and scooted forward. “I also love the way you wear your hair now, and the color.”

“I was always blond, Peter.”

“I mean those highlights or streaks or whatever you call the lighter parts.”

Damn, he was more observant than she’d thought.

“Looks great. Very sophisticated.” Then he pulled
the clip from her hair and as her hair tumbled down he pushed his hands through the strands. Then he kissed her.

His lips were cool and tasted of champagne, but only for a second until their mouths warmed each other. His hands trailed down her body, already sensitized by the bubbling warm water, so she felt stimulated everywhere.

Usually, she hated sex in a tub. There wasn’t enough room, water sloshed everywhere, the taps and faucet got in the way. Kit had decided aquatic sex was totally overrated.

But, of course, this tub, being a Hush installation, was somehow different. The taps and faucet were out of the way on the side, the tub was deep enough that water didn’t slosh anywhere it shouldn’t and since it was built for two (at least) there was plenty of room.

And then there were the jets that gently massaged every part of her body. Mmm. And his hands became somehow part of the tub’s delights, massaging and kneading, providing a different, firmer rhythm than the soft jets of water.

The condom was slightly awkward, and she was tempted to tell him she was on the Pill. She was clean and careful, and unless he’d changed more than she’d believe possible, he was, too. But did she want that kind of intimacy? Without so much as a sheath of latex between them?

No, she decided. She did not. So she let him fumble the thing onto his wet flesh. Then she leaned over, kissed him hard, and rode him.

Splish, splash.

Sure, she no longer thought about Peter and forever in the same sentence, but he was still the best sex she’d ever had.

I
RENE HAD NEVER FELT
more stupid in her life as she stood staring at herself in the mirror. The Hush team had spent a couple of hours on hair, makeup, stuffing her into this dress and heels that gave her blisters just opening the shoe box.

She looked like Sharon Osborne on a bad day. And before the face lifts. Who was she kidding? She wasn’t the princess type.

She was thirty-seven years old. A Midwestern car mechanic’s daughter. A woman who’d learned young that if you kept cracking jokes, you had control of a room. Not only that, but if nobody knew the tough gal with the tough mouth yearned for romance, then nobody could hurt her.

Now she’d let the secret out and all she wanted to do was stuff it deep inside again where it wouldn’t expose her to hurt.

This was ridiculous. That wasn’t her staring back in the mirror with those big, wide eyes and the soft pink mouth. Pink? When had she ever worn pink on her lips. Oh, no. She was red all the way, baby. Scarlet, in fact.

Pulling open the wardrobe, she dragged out something red and black. Hard to see because her vision had gone wavery. Oh, great. Stick her in a poufed dress and she started sniveling. Nope. Not her.

Okay, so they’d spent a fortune on her appearance, but this weekend was about having anything she wanted, and if she wanted to change her mind and be an almost middle-aged woman instead of a princess, then that’s exactly what she’d do.

On her hands and knees, she dug out the bright red Keds she bought in bulk at Target and dragged off one of the tippy, strappy things that were probably Manolo Blahnik. She snorted. Like anybody had ever heard of him before
Sex and the City.
Now women like her, who lived in the Midwest and never got nearer Manhattan than sitting in front of their televisions on Friday night, knew which shoe designers were cool. Shoe designers, for cripes sake!

Maybe that’s why she liked her red Keds. She could pronounce the name of the shoe and, big bonus, not cripple herself while wearing them or, even worse, fall flat on her face.

She had one red Ked and one black Blahnik going on when there was a soft knock on the door.

People had been parading in and out all afternoon to do things to her. Hair, eyebrow wax, which she hadn’t asked for and could only assume the hairdresser had ordered. Or Kit. Facial, manicure, pedicure, makeup. Now what? Were they planning to rub the deodorant on her underarms?

She opened the door and then nearly fell over, for which the uneven stance of trying to balance in one flat shoe and one stiletto was doubtless to blame. It couldn’t have been the dreamboat standing there.

For a second she simply stared up into the epitome of every prince she’d ever imagined. He was tall, naturally; dark, of course, though there were just a scatter
ing of silver threads to make him look distinguished. His eyes were gray and cool and superior, but with a hint of a smile. His brows rose slightly when she stood there tottering, ridiculously off balance, and staring.

“Irene Bonnet?” he inquired in such perfect, toffee-nosed, pompous, upper-class Britspeak that she nearly swooned. Oh, man. Swooned. Now she was even thinking like a dim-witted princess overcome by some handsome dude who’d give her thirteen children before she was twenty-five and be forever riding off to fight dragons or crusades or modern architecture in London, or whatever princes did.

“Yeah. Yes. I’m Irene. And you are?”

“I’m your escort for this evening. Giles Pendleton.”

Then the dreamboat presented her with a corsage. An honest-to-God corsage with a perfect, white flower. She felt weak and swoony.
Snap out of it,
she snarled to herself.

“Where did they get you? Central casting?” she found herself saying.

“Kent, actually. My family home is in Kent.”

“Well, it sure as hell isn’t in Ohio.” He couldn’t be for real, but then this whole weekend was about fantasy, so who really cared. For all she knew, he was from Ohio and he’d learned that accent in acting school. Yep, he could have grown up down the road from where she was raised. Stuffed into a tux, with his hair perfect and that bred-to-be-snooty expression he was channeling, he looked fabulous.

“Sit down,” he said, “and let me help you with your other shoe.”

Because she was still momentarily stunned that they’d whipped up this guy as though they’d crawled in
side her head and taken the specs, she did sit down—
plonk
—in one of the armchairs.

Before her stunned eyes, PC knelt gracefully on one knee and slipped the sneaker off her foot, replacing it with the black stiletto before she’d pulled together enough of her wits to let him know she planned to wear sneakers.

“Thanks,” she said, letting him help her to her feet.

“May I pin your corsage?”

She nodded. He was so deft, his fingers barely touched her and yet there was a warm sliding of his fingers against her shoulder as he pinned the flowers to her dress.

“How did you know?” she asked. “How did you know I wasn’t wearing white?”

“I’d like to pretend it was my inate exquisite taste, but in fact I cheated and phoned Kit. She knew what you were wearing.”

Yeah, because she’d picked it out and paid for it. Obviously, she hadn’t said so to his lordship, here, for which she was absurdly grateful.

She picked up her clutch, cast a last, hopeless glance at her comfortable black and red clothes and the flat shoes, then took a nervous breath,

“You look beautiful,” Giles said in that soft but sexy voice.

She looked once again at herself in the mirror. “You don’t think I look like one of those dusters made with ostrich feathers?”

He chuckled. “No. I think you look like the sort of woman who has season’s tickets to the ballet.”

“Charm school as well as acting lessons, huh?” She smiled at him, feeling more relaxed now that she knew she at least had a dreamboat for a date.

His eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. He held out his arm, crooked. “Shall we?” he asked, then took her hand and placed it on his arm.

“So,” she said, “would I have seen you in anything?”

He gazed down at her in a puzzled fashion. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Like movies or plays?” She didn’t want him to think she expected too much, so she added, “Commercials? Department store flyers?” Maybe that’s why he seemed familiar. She could imagine him modeling for Burberry or bowler hats.

He seemed quite amused. “I’m not an actor.”

“Huh? What are you then? I mean, when you’re not in the escort business.”

“I’m a businessman.”

“Well, that’s elucidating and pretty much covers everything from drug running to file clerking.”

“I do neither, though I’m afraid the excitement and danger of my work are closer to file clerking than drug smuggling.”

“Do I keep guessing or are you going to tell me?”

“I’m in banking, actually. Private banking.”

“Cool. In England?”

“Primarily, yes. Although we’ve got a number of clients in America so we’ll be opening up a branch here in New York in a few months.”

She was stunned. Could her prince be gainfully employed? Of course, the whole snooty private banking résumé could have been invented for her benefit. It didn’t really matter, since he only had to fake it for a weekend. But she’d like to know. A simple experiment should prove whether he was banking on her ignorance of banking to get through the evening.

“So,” she said, casually, “where do you think the Dow’s headed in the next couple of months. Is it still a better bet than NASDAQ?”

Giles patted the hand tucked into his arm. “One should never mix business and pleasure, my dear,” he said, which was totally cute and absolutely in character, and managed to skirt around the fact that he probably knew less about what she was talking about than she did. The only stocks in her portfolio were the hundred shares of Apple she had bought after she had fallen in love with her pink iPod and decided that a company that could make any product that adorable deserved her money.

They reached the bar too soon for Irene, who was enjoying walking arm in arm with the sexiest Brit on earth. Erotique, for heaven’s sake. Somebody had been drinking too many Bellinis when they named this place.

Giles glanced around and said, “It looks as though we’re the first. Shall we go in?”

“Sure.”

He led them to a table not far from the bar and with a good view of the entrance. He waited until Irene was seated before sitting down himself. What manners!

“What will you have to drink?”

“I don’t know. I usually have rum and Coke, but I feel like I should drink something elegant with this dress on.”

“Most definitely. May I suggest a champagne cocktail?”

“Is it as good as it sounds?”

“Yes.”

She grinned at him. “Okay. I’m game.”

Giles made the smallest motion with his hand and suddenly a waiter appeared. He was obviously the sort of man who got good tables in restaurants and could always get a cab in New York.

“Yes, sir. What can I get for you and the lady?”

“A champagne cocktail for my companion, please, and I’ll have a dry martini.”

“Straight up?”

“Naturally.”

After the waiter left, Giles said, “What is so amusing?”

“You are.” She mimicked the waiter, “Straight up?” and then really piled on the British accent, “Naturally.” She was a gifted mimic, and Giles was forced to smile even if he didn’t find it all that delightful that she was making fun of him. Always one to blather on when anyone else would shut up, she added, “How do you like your sex, sir? Straight up?” and then answered herself, “Naturally.”

He looked more startled than annoyed. “Did Peter tell you that?”

“Peter who?”

“Ah, never mind. I’ve a notion that Peter thinks—”

But whatever it was that Peter thought she obviously wasn’t going to find out. Giles rose gracefully, as Kit arrived dragging a total hottie along with her. They both seemed a little breathless and had that “just sexed” look about them that made Irene envious. The hottie’s hair was damp.

“Sorry we’re late,” Kit said.

“Not at all,” Giles replied. “We only just arrived ourselves. What will you have to drink? Irene’s going to try a champagne cocktail.”

“That sounds good to me,” Kit said.

“And I’m having a martini.” He glanced at the cutie, who nodded, then walked over to the bar.

Her attention was caught by Kit who said, “Irene, this is Peter.”

“Hi,” she said, and they shook hands.

The fresh-out-of-bed twosome seemed as if they were having trouble coming down to earth, so Irene said, “This is a great bar.”

“Yes.” Peter glanced at Kit under his ridiculously-long-for-a-man eyelashes and said, “And this is my favorite table.”

Kit blinked, and glanced around. She did the strangest thing; she leaned down to look underneath. “Is this the one?”

“Yep.”

“The one what?”

“This is the table where Kit and I sat last time we had a drink in this bar. A brandy,” he said, with another wicked glance at Kit. No wonder the poor woman was blushing. If Giles started looking at her with that unadorned lust, she’d be blushing, too. Although the very idea of Giles acting so…American seemed as unlikely as any man looking at her as though he couldn’t wait to drag her off to bed.

Not that she wasn’t a sexy woman; she was. But few men bothered to make love to her with their hot gazes. Unfortunately.

Giles returned to his seat beside hers and behind him came their waiter with four drinks.

He’d been right, she found when she tasted her cocktail. She did like it. Very much. It was elegant. Not too sweet and not too dry.

“How’s the champagne cocktail?”

“Just right.”

There was silence for a moment and then Peter said to Giles, “I bumped into Duncan Trevor coming out of the restaurant.”

“Good lord. I wonder what he’s doing here?”

“I don’t know. But I hope whatever he’s doing, he’s doing it with his wife. I heard they were getting back together.”

“Oh, good. He’s a nice chap.”

“Didn’t you arrange the financing for his company?”

“Yes.”

Irene blinked. Financing for a company? Could he really be in banking? Or was Peter part of the show? Determined to get the truth, she said, “Giles.”

“Yes?”

She held out her perfectly manicured hand, the nails painted a pale pink that exactly matched her lipstick. “Hand me your business card.”

He dug out his wallet with no hesitation and drew out a card that was so discreet he could have been a secret agent. The stock was a rich cream and the inscription said The Honorable Giles Pendleton, Private Banking. There were some letters after his name, and the address of the bank was London. England.

“Is this for real?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said, as though he were apologizing.

Not entirely sure she believed him, she glanced at the other two. “He’s really in banking?”

They both nodded.

“He’s not an actor?”

They both shook their heads.

“What’s all this about The Honorable?” she wanted to know.

“It’s on your business card?” Peter said, looking stunned.

“I carry two business cards, to be honest,” Giles said.

“You’re really a secret agent, aren’t you?”

He chuckled softly. “Well, I like that better than an actor, at any rate.”

She tucked the business card into her new clutch that contained breath mints, twenty bucks in case she needed cab fare home, a lipstick and a comb.

Kit, who was born to be in public relations, eased them into a new subject so fast it could have been greased. “I bet your job is really interesting, being a stand-up comic.”

“Well, it beats keypunch operator, and when I started out, those were my options.”

Kit laughed. “Where do you get your material?”

Funny how everyone asked that question first. She shrugged. “It comes from life, I guess. From looking at something a new way. Like…my feet are killing me in these shoes. I’d like to make fun of Manolo Blahnik right now.”

“Really?” Kit’s eyes shone. “Why don’t you?”