by Susan Wiggs
“Are you hurt?” Jack asked. He stooped and retrieved an expensive-looking hat, handing it to the man.
“N-no. Just shaken.” The man produced a silk handkerchief, using it to mop his forehead. He put the hat on. “Thanks.”
In the foggy glow of a streetlamp, Jack inspected the ashen, heavily jowled face. “You sure? You want me to call a doctor or something?”
“No. I’ll just go back to the shop and call a cab. I’ve got a truck, but I don’t feel like driving tonight.” The man looked at Jack and suddenly seemed to remember himself. “Listen to me. The man saves my life and I don’t even introduce myself.” He stuck out a gloved hand. “Harry Fodgother.”
“John Patrick Riley. Call me Jack.” He instantly placed the little man. Back when he was first starting out at the paper, he’d done a stint as a copy editor. Fodgother’s name had appeared frequently in the society column: The Donald Dazzled the Dames in His Exclusive Harry Fodgother Tux…. “You’re the tailor, right?”
Harry’s features pinched with mock disdain. “Gentlemen’s clothier, if you please.” He laughed. “I call myself that, I get to charge double.”
He extracted a wad of keys from his pocket and opened a heavy steel door marked Deliveries. Jack followed him, passing through a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, dress dummies and drafting tables. The walls boasted photos of Who’s Who types sporting Fodgother’s creations.
When they entered the shop, Jack’s feet sank two inches into the plush carpet. The showroom was done in leather, brass and hunter green, like a gentlemen’s English bar, complete with hunting scenes on the walls. There wasn’t a stitch of clothing in sight. He suspected the ready-to-wears were tucked into the antique armoires, chests and highboys.
“Nice place,” he remarked.
“Indeed.” Harry switched on a green-shaded banker’s lamp on a desk and picked up the phone. “There’s an icebox under the counter there. Have a beer.”
Jack opened a beer for himself and one for Harry while Fodgother called for a cab. When he hung up, Jack asked, “Aren’t you going to report this to the police?”
Fodgother shook his head. “They were just a couple of dopers. I didn’t really get a look at them. You came along before they took anything except my pride. Police would take all night and …” His voice trailed off as Jack drew something out of his pocket.
“Damn,” Jack said, frowning. “I thought I threw this away.” Actually, he had thrown the invitation away, but on impulse he had rescued the card. Maybe to show his mother, who always wanted to hear about his highfalutin’ New York City friends. She never could get it into her head that he didn’t hobnob with John F. Kennedy, Jr., on a regular basis.
He came out from behind the counter and handed Harry a beer.
“You were working late,” Jack observed. “Cheers.”
“I work all through the season.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Mazel tov.”
Jack grinned and took a sip. “Same to you.”
“You’re not from around here.”
“Texas, but my accent’s fading fast unless I think about it.”
Harry picked up the cream stock card. He read it quickly, then slapped his forehead. “An invitation from Madeleine Langston! How on earth did you come by this?”
Jack took another slug of beer. “She’s my boss. Otherwise known as the bitch goddess.”
“Gorgeous, though. She used to go out with one of my 46-Regulars.”
Jack chuckled, picturing Madeleine Langston accompanied by an empty suit. Then his amusement faded as the empty suit changed into an image of himself. Sheesh. He was losing his mind. He was one sick puppy. He wanted her.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t smitten with her.” Harry pointed his cane at Jack. “I was young once, too.”
“She’s a snow queen,” Jack protested. “Cruella De Vil. I’d have better luck with an ice sculpture.”
“Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”
“I don’t even know her. Met her once, maybe twice. And believe me, the earth did not move.”
“The Dakota,” Harry murmured. “That’s her late father’s annual party.” He shook his head sadly. “It’ll be her first year without him. Her last year for the party. Just think how that must make her feel.”
Jack nearly gagged on his beer. Harry made him actually think of Madeleine as a person—someone with feelings, someone who could be hurt. He shouldn’t care. But he did.
“She’s probably dancing holes in the rug,” he said.
“She’s probably drinking too much and smiling too hard and wishing someone would rescue her.”
“How would you know?” Jack asked, taking a swallow of beer.
Harry pointed the tip of his cane at Jack’s chest. “I know. Trust me.”
Pushy little squirt, Jack thought. Harry just kept staring at him. His scrutiny was so drawn out and intense that Jack’s ears heated. “I guess I don’t look much like your usual clients, right?”
“I like a challenge. Maybe there’s a prince beneath those rags.” Twirling his cane, Harry walked in a slow circle around Jack, muttering numbers under his breath. “Jack Riley, I’m going to outfit you like you never dreamed. It’ll be like magic. You won’t know yourself.”
“Er, I’m not really into clothes, Harry.”
“Come on, haven’t you ever wanted to walk into a roomful of people and knock ’em dead?”
“Only if they’re Republicans.”
“Bah. You joke when you could go to this ball and meet the woman of your dreams.”
Jack couldn’t help himself. He laughed out loud.
Harry pointed the cane again. “Let me do this for you. You saved my life.”
“Actually, I’m more the down-home, beer-and-TV type, Harry.”
“Miracles happen, my boy.”
Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his Yankees jacket. “She’s not my type—”
“I think you’re the type who likes to have fun. Who can’t stand the thought of a lonely lady at a party where everyone wants something from her.” Harry eyed the card meaningfully. He reached up and removed Jack’s glasses. “Drink your beer, cowboy. We’ve got work to do—and fast.”
Hell, Jack decided in amused resignation, had no fury like a tailor—er, gentleman clothier—in the throes of gratitude.
Chapter Three
Madeleine caught herself squinting at the clock again. Ten-thirty. Two whole minutes had passed since she had last checked. She had smiled a hundred plastic smiles, murmured a hundred lame greetings and taken a hundred sips of her now lukewarm Dom Pérignon. The bubbly was starting to take its toll.
She was, as always, graceful and cautious when tipsy. Objects took on a rather pleasant warm fuzziness. Watching a model in a dress that appeared to be constructed entirely of soda-can pull tabs, Madeleine repressed a tiny urge to giggle.
The urge died when Britt Beckworth III started across the room toward her. Like a human Ken doll, he had a square jaw, comb-furrowed hair and an empty head.
Madeleine sought shelter in the shadow of a stoneware Thorleifsson sculpture in the foyer. What was it about her, she wondered, that made her a virtual magnet for boring, self-seeking men? And catty, competitive women? Couldn’t she, for God’s sake, just have a friend?
She saw no likely candidate in the room. Derek and Brad from the city room kept looking at her with gazes of hopeful lust—not quite the sentiment she wanted to inspire in men.
She glanced longingly at the door. Her feet moved toward it without volition. Her thoughts were focused on the small red car made by an Italian manufacturer with an unpronounceable name. It was in the garage, gassed up and gleaming. She wished she hadn’t drunk so much champagne and ditched her contacts for the night, because she really wanted to get in the car and just drive. Fast and far. Until she came to a place where the name Madeleine Langston meant nothing.
She wanted to do something wild and totally out of character.
To lose control, for once in her life. Or even more intriguing, to surrender control to someone else, someone she could trust. Someone who would sweep her off her feet.
I wish, she thought. I wish … She closed her eyes and tried to will away the yearning, but she couldn’t. She knew such things didn’t happen in real life, but still …
Her hand closed around the doorknob. She was surprised to feel it turn from without, and she stepped back, marshaling her excuses. Too glad to see you, darling, but I simply must run, she rehearsed silently. We’ll do lunch.…
The door opened.
The excuses died in Madeleine’s throat. She stepped back and stared, suddenly certain beyond any doubt that she had died and gone to heaven.
He stood well over six feet tall, even after he removed his black Stetson to reveal a wealth of glossy dark hair. “Hi, darlin’,” he said easily, handing her a familiar card. “This got me past the doorman. Will it get me past you?”
“Not if I can help it,” Madeleine murmured before she could stop herself. Her awed gaze took in his beautifully groomed hair. Candlelight created russet highlights in the waves that spilled over the starched collar of his snowy shirt and sleekly cut jacket. The garment made a dark, enticing sculpture of his broad shoulders. He wore it open to reveal Florentine buttons down the minutely pleated front of his shirt and black dress slacks that hugged his narrow waist and hips. The toes of his black cowboy boots were narrow enough to stomp a roach in a corner of the Flatiron Building.
Studying his rugged, freshly shaven face, she felt a flicker of recognition. On the one hand, he looked startlingly familiar. Yet on the other hand, when he gave her a lazy, long-lipped smile, she was certain she had never seen that face before—except in the most pleasant of dreams.
“Darlin’,” he said, “if we stand here much longer, somebody’s going to hang a hat on one of us.”
“Of course,” she said, stepping back and setting his invitation on the hall table. “Come in, Mr….”
“Uh, Patrick. John … Patrick. But call me John, Miss …”
“Madeleine,” she said quickly. But she liked it better when he called her “darlin’.”
“Dance with me, darlin’.” He put his hat on the table.
The swing band was playing a languorous tune from the forties. The bluesy strains invaded her, making it almost impossible not to sway. Feeling suddenly breezy, as if all the bubbles in the champagne she’d drunk had taken flight, Madeleine put her hand in his and let him sweep her into heaven.
* * *
To his utter amazement, Jack Riley found himself in the middle of a parquet floor, swaying slowly to a haunting, old-fashioned melody, with Madeleine Langston in his arms.
His senses hummed in disbelief. Either she was part of the game or she honestly didn’t recognize him. Could Harry Fodgother’s magic have changed him so much?
Catching a glimpse of himself in an antique mirror, he began to think it was possible. The horn-rims were gone. The upscale tux and boots and the shave and hairstyle had turned him from a Brooklyn slob into an urban cowboy. That, coupled with his exaggerated Texas drawl, made the perfect disguise.
Maybe.
Almost unconsciously, he tightened his hold on her waist and felt an unexpected jolt of attraction. The ice princess was different up close. She was warm. Soft. Touchable.
He’d taken ballroom dancing for a PE credit in college, and for the first time in his life he put the lessons to use. Her hand pressed softly against his arm. Bitch goddess? No way. At the moment she was as sweet and responsive as a kitten. And that smell! It was like holding a bouquet of freshly cut lilies in his arms.
“Enjoying the party?” he asked, watching the way his breath stirred her hair. Little wispy locks fell around her temples and neck. She had it all caught up in a strand of crystal beads.
“Mmm. I am now. I’d been dreading this party for weeks.” She sent him a sweet-sad smile that he felt all the way to his fingertips. “It’s my father’s apartment. He passed away, but I felt obligated to put on his annual party one last time.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.
“I’m coping.” Her thigh brushed his as they changed direction on the dance floor. Her smile took on a mischievous light. “It’s a great way to pick up men.”
He swallowed painfully, his throat suddenly dry. “You do this often?”
She laughed. “You’re my first. And I think you’re worth waiting for.”
Her easy admission took him aback. She knew. She had to. She was playing games with him. Yet a doubt took root in his mind. Madeleine Langston was incapable of lying. Jack had seen her try when she’d pretended she wanted him at her party. He’d seen her slender body stiffen, her face flush to the roots of her blonder-than-blond hair. She was a terrible liar.
Moving to the edge of the dance floor, he backed her against a marble pillar and stopped. He braced his hand on the wall and stared down into her face. Lord, she was beautiful. A cool, ivory Botticelli rising up out of her ocean kingdom, her eyes alight with—Jesus—admiration.
“Madeleine.”
She touched his narrow silk bow tie. “I love the way you say my name.”
Jack’s collar suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. This was insane. “Have … have we met before?” He watched her intently for a reaction.
Her face was very close. She lifted one slender finger and touched his chin lightly, like an inquisitive child. His clean-shaven chin, which Harry Fodgother had splashed with something hideously expensive. “Impossible,” she whispered, lowering her hand to trail it down his chest. “If I’d met you before, I never would have forgotten it.”
Too late. She would kill him now if she found out.
Panicked, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away. “Madeleine, don’t do this,” he said. “Don’t pretend you don’t know—”
“Oh, God.” She rose on tiptoe to look past him. Her eyes held a wild, hunted look. “Here they come.”
Jack glanced around to see William Wornich surrounded by a gaggle of bold-faced types easing toward them. In a heartbeat, he understood. Madeleine lived like a bug under a magnifying glass, regularly getting burned by the intensified rays of public attention. He could see tomorrow’s headlines: Publishing Heiress Two-Steps with Mystery Cowboy.
“Come on.” Ramming on his new Stetson, he slid his arm around her and bent to whisper in her ear, “Let’s get out of here.”
A flash blinded him, and he heard the whir of a camera’s motor drive. He saw Brad and Derek on the far side of the room. Needing no more prodding, he drew Madeleine swiftly to the door. They ignored the voices calling after them and plunged into the elevator. For an endless moment, the doors stood open, framing the advancing curiosity seekers, Brad and Derek included.
Jack tugged the brim of his hat lower and jammed his thumb on the Close button. The elevator doors slid shut with an electronic sigh.
Madeleine pressed herself back against the wall as they glided downward. A slow smile curved her lips. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.”
“I forgot my coat.”
“Would you like me to go back for it?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
In a fraudulently chivalrous gesture, he whipped off his tux jacket and settled it around her. She was lost in the huge black folds, and when she smiled up at him, he felt a tingle of pure magic.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He glanced at the panel of elevator buttons. “The parking garage?”
Her laughter chimed like silver bells. “After that, I mean.”
“Er, where would you like to go?”
As the doors opened and she preceded him out, she asked, “You’re driving?”
“Yes.” Was he ever. A grateful Harry Fodgother had lent his truck to him for the night. Over Jack’s protests, Harry had handed him a set of keys and an access card to a garage where one parking space cost more than Jack’s Brooklyn flat.
The truck was a middle-aged tailor’s boyhood fantasy: huge, black and outfitted with every gadget GM could imagine, including a horn that gobbled and mooed. “Are you?” Jack asked.
Peering at the truck, she hesitated and caught her lower lip with her teeth. “Not tonight. I overdid it a bit on the champagne. Where are you staying?”
“Staying?” Holding open the passenger door, Jack broke out in a sweat. He hadn’t anticipated getting this far. “Er, with … friends in White Plains.”
“Oh.” She settled into the high bucket seat; her stockinged legs folded with a whisper of silk. The seams at the back were perfect, leading up the most extraordinary pair of calves he had ever seen.
Jack Riley’s not-so-secret vice was admiring women’s bodies. He loved them, pure and simple. The softness. The curves. The textures and scents.
Disappointment was written on her face. She looked so forlorn that he blurted, “I could take you to a club or something.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Home,” she whispered, laying her hand lightly on his sleeve. “I want you to take me home.”
Chapter Four
Madeleine’s hand trembled slightly as she touched the code on the keypad of the elevator to her Park Avenue apartment. They rode up in silence, surrounded by dim amber lights and bronze-tinted mirrors. She had resolved to do something reckless and out of character. This certainly fit the bill.
She thought about the last time she’d brought a man home. An unmitigated disaster. He’d spent the first hour cataloging the Monet paintings, Calder mobiles and Baccarat fixtures, the second hour trying to maneuver her into the bedroom, and the third trying to figure out why she had pleaded a sudden headache and sent him on his way.
She stole a glance at the tall man beside her. His posture was easy. His hands were linked loosely in front of him. His gaze held a genuine warmth and friendliness she desperately wanted to trust.
Please be different, she pleaded silently. I need you to be different.
