"Thanks a lot." Sara shoved in another mouthful. Chicken salad this time. Going straight to those very same thighs, no doubt.
Missy tapped her pen—the silver one engraved with the date she became engaged. "I don't think having Sara meet men directly is working."
Hayden snorted. "It's working just fine, I'd say!"
"Just shut up," Sara mumbled and went for the coconut cream pie. She hadn't told them about the kiss and she wasn't going to.
"Sara…" Missy covered her hand—the one that wasn't shoveling coconut cream into her mouth. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider Simon?"
Sara ruthlessly repressed the memories of his hands on her thighs, the muscles in his arms and the wave of hair that fell over his forehead in a way he wouldn't have allowed it to at the office. Most especially, she suppressed the memory of being crushed against his chest with his hot lips on hers. That was a really hard one to suppress. "I have been down that road before."
"But never in a Rolls, honey," Hayden said. "And Simon is definitely a Rolls."
"It doesn't matter what kind of car it is, when it runs out of gas, it isn't going to go. I'm looking for a guy who's willing to carry gas cans."
"But why, when there are gas stations on every corner?" Missy asked.
"It's a metaphor, Missy." Sara finished her pie. "Forget about Simon." She hoped she could.
"Okay, if Simon isn't for you, then he's not. But, Sara, is it really that hopeless?"
Sara visualized Kayla and Joanna. Visualized Simon's instant response to interruptions. Visualized the number of interruptions. Visualized herself whining about the interruptions. Visualized what might be getting interrupted. "Yes!"
"Okay, okay." Missy presented her with yet another spreadsheet. "The fine arts and couples who met through them cross-referenced with occupation and income of the male."
Hayden pulled the spreadsheet toward her before Sara could see it. "Where do you get this information?"
"If you'd been in a sorority, you wouldn't have to ask. Now, Sara, do you happen to have an affinity for the arts?"
"I had an affinity for an Art once. Art Rosenbloom. He didn't say much." Hayden smiled. "But he didn't have to."
Sara ignored her. "I played clarinet in seventh grade, was in chorus in eighth grade, and in high school my ecology poster won third place in a district-wide contest. That was so cool. It was a collage thing and I had live worms in this cute little cage that I'd spray-painted gold and attached to the poster. I was showing how composting can enrich…" She trailed off as she became aware of Hayden and Missy wearing identical "ick" expressions. "And I've seen the Nutcracker twice," she finished.
There was silence as everybody stared at the spreadsheet.
"The average ballet volunteer is nearly a decade younger than that of the other volunteers," Missy offered. "A lot of mothers get involved when their little girls start dance lessons."
"And this will help Sara how?" Hayden stole a forkful of Sara's leftover chicken salad.
"She can make contact with women her own age who probably know eligible single men. Plus their mothers who may have unmarried sons."
Hayden gazed at her consideringly. "Could work."
"Well, she has seen the Nutcracker twice." Missy cleared her throat and smiled a determinedly perky smile at Sara. "Ballet it is, then."
Simon had spent way too much time reliving the incident at the gym, specifically those moments when he'd finally got his hands on Sara. He'd used an undoubtedly painful cramp of a major muscle group as an excuse to touch her. How desperate was that? Not as desperate as kissing her was. He closed his eyes as he relived the fire that had burned from his mouth to his groin as he'd kissed her. He hadn't cared about time or place or circumstances.
No wonder she'd fled and he hadn't seen her since. What had he expected when he'd hit on her with all the finesse of a hormone-saturated teenager?
Speaking of teenagers, Joanna had called him in a panic because some thirteen-year-old boy had been calling Kayla and what should she do?
Simon told her that talking on the phone seemed fairly innocuous, but apparently it was more than talking on the phone, it was instant-messaging and setting up personal Web pages that dripped with sexual references.
Great. Instead of figuring out how to approach Sara, he'd spent last night cruising preteen Web pages and feeling very old and out of touch in the process. He considered himself media savvy, but those pages had managed to shock him.
Were the kids serious? Or were they just parroting the sexual references in advertising and pop culture without really understanding them?
Somehow, he found himself taking Kayla out for a hamburger and trying to talk to her about it. Kayla became as sullen as ever, Joanna was contemptuous of his efforts and he'd let three days go by without contacting Sara.
Temporarily backing off a relationship with her was probably wise, he told himself. Now, he'd start again slowly with a Sunday jazz brunch at Brennan's. Sunday noon was nice and respectable; there were no hidden pressures about nighttime sleeping arrangements. No external ones, anyway.
He'd make reservations and call her right now.
Simon was on the phone with Brennan's when another call came through.
"Northrup," he answered.
"Simon, it's Joanna. Listen, there's something wrong with the computer and Kayla has a project due tomorrow…"
When she'd imagined her adult life, Sara had never envisioned herself wearing a silk shirtwaist dress with a matching fabric belt—how frumpy was that?—expensive and uncomfortable black pumps and a string of good-quality fake pearls as she called people on a list and asked them for large amounts of money.
It was surreal. It was also excruciating because Sara had had no experience asking people for money—her parents excepted. And even then, she was expected to wash the car or do the dishes for a week in return. Somehow offering to wash someone's car after she thanked them "for your generous support in the past" and would they "consider becoming a Green Room Patron," which was ten thousand dollars, didn't seem quite enough.
These people were complete and total strangers, and yet, here she was, cheerily asking them to part with thousands of dollars. And an astounding percentage did so. Who knew?
Sara had been given several sneaky phone scripts, which meant that she'd never look at charity calls the same way again.
"Mrs. Norris? Sara Lipton here with the Barre Belles. We're just finalizing our guest list for the pre-season dinner honoring the ballet patrons. May we include you this year?"
"Sara Lipton," mused a cigarette-roughened voice. "You're new, aren't you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Lipton … Lipton… Do I know your mother?"
"I don't believe so."
"Hmph. So is Patty Wickham on the Green Room list this year?"
"Just a minute." Sara set down the phone, walked over to the computer and brought up the file with the donor list. Fortunately for the ballet, it appeared that the Green Room was going to be crowded this year.
"Yes, she is," she told Mrs. Norris when she got back to her phone.
"Thank you, young lady." She sounded elated, which probably meant Sara wasn't supposed to give out that information. Too late. "Sign me up for the Director's Circle."
Twenty-five thousand dollars. Just like that. And the woman didn't even know her. "I—thank you, Mrs. Norris. I mean, the Barre Belles appreciate your support of the fine arts in Houston. Being a member of the Director's Circle entitles—"
"I know what it entitles me to. Now you listen here. If Patty Wickham upgrades, I'm counting on you to let me know. You're Sara Lipton. I've written down your name."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sara hung up the phone thinking that if she were as ruthless as the rest of them, she'd give Patty Wickham a heads-up, then call Mrs. Norris. Instead, she checked the woman's name off her list.
Actually, it wasn't so bad being a member of the Barre Belles. Missy had got her in through a soro
rity sister and Sara already had three offers to introduce her to unmarried male relatives. Not bad for a Saturday morning.
Sara held up her sheet of paper. "Barbara, I'm finished."
Barbara had been a Barre Belle for years and years.
Enough years to have a grandson she wanted Sara to meet. Barbara was cool, so Sara was hopeful that some of the coolness had filtered down through the generations.
"Where did your list leave off?"
"With the n's. Mrs. Norris. She's a new member of the Director's Circle," Sara couldn't help mentioning.
"Well done, Sara! Did you ring the bell?"
"Bell?"
"When you sign up a Director's Circle, you get to ring the bell." Barbara handed her a brass bell with tiny ballet slippers on the handle. "Go ahead. Ring it."
Hayden would laugh at her. Missy would be thrilled for her. Sara rang the bell and there were exclamations and applause from the other women manning the phone banks.
"Denise Norris," Barbara called out.
Sara accepted everyone's congratulations, then Barbara handed her another computer printout. "You're doing so well, here are the rest of the n's."
Well, she was on a roll, wasn't she? Sara reached for the phone and then saw the first name on her list: Simon Northrup.
No. Simon and the ballet? Yeah, right. Houston was a big city; there was bound to be more than one Simon Northrup.
But that first phone number looked awfully familiar. The Avalli digital main line. It figured. Kayla was probably into ballet and that mother of hers had taken advantage of Simon. That didn't mean that Sara would. There was no way she was calling Simon Northrup to ask him for money. Not after … she shivered at the thought of it.
It was Saturday, so he wouldn't be at work, at least officially. No point in calling him. Except that his home number was also there in bold, which meant it was an unlisted number.
Well, she wasn't calling it, and that was final. Simon Northrup was not donating to the ballet this year, unless he remembered all on his own.
When she turned in her list, Barbara glanced through it. "Simon Northrup didn't contribute?"
"He's still considering," Sara said.
And she didn't feel the slightest bit guilty.
"Simon Northrup, why are you giving that sweet Sara such a hard time?"
Simon was nonplused. How could Barbara Franks of the Barre Belles know about Sara?
Simon liked to stand and stretch when he took phone calls at his desk, but this one had him rooted to the spot. "Sara?" he prompted carefully.
"Sara Lipton, one of our new girls. She has such a knack for fund-raising that I'm surprised you didn't fall under her spell."
Oh, he'd fallen, all right, but the spell caster was avoiding him. She hadn't returned his call, the one in which he'd planned to invite her to brunch, so he was thinking of paying a casual visit to the twenty-fourth floor, though it could be tricky spending too much time with her at work. Interoffice dating wasn't frowned upon, but there was an unwritten rule against it.
However, it was unwritten and Simon was practically a department all by himself. He rarely interacted with domestic employees, since his work was overseas. And he never visited the payroll department.
By the time Barbara Franks got ahold of him, Simon had thought up an impressive list of reasons why dating a fellow employee was not only okay, but desirable. Now if he could only find a casual way to approach Sara.
"Don't tease her, Simon."
So Sara was volunteering with the Barre Belles, Simon mused. Interesting. And possibly useful. "What makes you think I'm teasing her?"
"By telling her you're still considering making a donation!" She laughed. "You men. Don't think I don't know that you only want to talk to her again. But just a word—she's new at this and might think you're serious."
Good. Great. In fact, an excuse to approach Sara had just dropped in his lap. An expensive excuse, but he'd take it.
Sara was extremely proud of herself. She was only thinking about Simon once every hour or so, down from every five minutes, which had been a huge improvement over thinking about him constantly.
She had also declined to run up to the twenty-sixth floor when Hayden called with a potential paper jam.
She even cut off Hayden at lunch when she reported on the stupid jam and how Simon had fixed it.
She hadn't even strayed from her course when Missy reported her findings on Barbara Franks's grandson—two years younger than Sara and an unemployed history major, therefore Not Eligible.
But honestly, how was she supposed to stop thinking about him when he softly knocked on her cubicle wall and smiled down at her, making her remember that the last time he'd looked down at her he was massaging her thighs?
"Hi, Sara."
Omigosh, that voice. Just his voice could turn her into a puddle. She didn't even need to think about the way his arms had looked in the ripped T-shirt or the way his strong, warm hands had felt kneading and rubbing and caressing…
"Hi!" Too bright, too peppy.
"I hear you're interested in the ballet?"
Oh, God. He'd heard … he'd heard what? "Well, you know, uh, the Nutcracker…"
He gave her an amused look. "Yes. I know it well."
Couldn't she appear competent around him at least once? Was that really too much to ask?
"I understand it's time for the Barre Belles' annual appeal."
"Yes, the donors' dinner and all that." She stared at her desk.
"I've considered my donation for this year…"
He knew. He knew because Barbara Franks had called him behind her back. Sara cringed.
A check appeared in her field of vision. He slid it smoothly across her desk. "I thought I'd save you the trouble of a phone call."
Green Room level. Sara's head shot up.
Simon's lips curved in that way he had, as though he was on the verge of smiling. And his eyes … well, she wouldn't even go there.
"Wow. I mean, the Barre Belles appreciate your support of the fine arts in Houston. A Green Room patron is entitled—"
He waved away the rest of her speech and leaned against her cubicle doorway. "I'm only interested in being able to take Kayla to the Nutcracker tea with the dancers."
Right. Kayla. Sara was trying to forget about Simon, but she'd challenge any woman to forget about a man who could drop a five-figure check just so his sister could meet some ballet dancers.
Yes, there was something wildly attractive about a man who could hand over a check that large without asking that she wait a few days before cashing it, or grousing about the new car part or electronic toy or the sports tickets he could have bought instead.
She should say something, something not written in the Barre Belles' fund-raising guidebook. "This is really generous of you. Kayla is lucky to have you for a big brother."
His smile dimmed slightly.
Sara hurried on. "Do you have to pick her up from school today, or anything? If not, how about a cup of coffee?"
"Sounds good." And now he did smile. "I could use a jolt of caffeine."
Omigosh. Sara hadn't expected him to agree.
There was a Starbucks in the underground tunnel system connecting the buildings downtown. She swallowed. "Starbucks okay?"
"Perfect."
Damn. "Can you go now?" she asked. "Maybe later would be better if you're busy—"
"Now is fine." He straightened.
Well, she had no choice, did she? The man had just handed her a huge check. It would have been churlish to take it and run.
They walked in silence to the elevator. Then it opened, and they were the only two people inside. Sara was alone with Simon Northrup and a couple of her most recent elevator fantasies: the ever popular getting-stuck-in-the-elevator fantasy, and the Simon-pushing-on-the-emergency-stop-so-he-could-kiss-her-senseless fantasy…
"Any ill effects from your workout on Saturday?"
That line of dialogue was not in either of her fa
ntasies. "I'm fine."
"Good."
She took a step to the side, putting a little more distance between them. It was better if she couldn't feel the heat from his body because it reminded her of the way his hands had felt and, well, that wasn't good. "Sara…"
She stared at the floor numbers. "Yes?" If he said anything to her about Saturday or itching or breakfast, or that short, searing kiss, she'd punch the emergency stop herself. In fact, she might punch it anyway. She no longer cared about what was best for her future. Carpe diem, and all that. At least, carpe Simon. She turned to him.
He stared down at her with that intense look that promised equally intense lovemaking. A shiver rippled through her.
She licked her lips. That always worked in the movies. Sure enough, Simon's gaze caught the movement. He opened his mouth and Sara held her breath.
"So how long have you been interested in the ballet?"
All he wanted to do was stop the elevator and kiss her senseless.
Okay. Calm. Think. Make conversation. Do not touch. Do not stop elevator and kiss Sara.
Simon knew he'd created this awkwardness between them by coming on too strong Saturday. He wouldn't make that mistake again because Sara was worth waiting for.
She volunteered for the ballet. He wouldn't have thought it of her, which meant there were more layers to explore and the more he found, the more he liked.
She'd been casually fun with Kayla, sexy as hell at the Stratford Oaks, bent on improving herself—adorably—at the gym, and now here she was determined to contribute to her community by working with the ballet.
She was a winner. As close to perfect as a woman could be. And if he wanted any kind of chance with this perfect woman, then he'd better proceed cautiously. So. He needed a nice neutral topic. She liked ballet, he'd start there.
"Saturday was my first day volunteering. I, well, when I was little, I liked the Nutcracker."
"Kayla tried out for the part of Clara a couple of years ago." And when she didn't get it, she'd thrown such a fit that his father had tried to buy her way in. He didn't succeed, for which Simon was thankful. He could only imagine how bad Kayla would be now if she'd learned that she could buy her way into and out of situations. She'd learn that soon enough. "She didn't get the part, but she enjoyed being in the party scene," was all Simon elected to tell Sara.
HOW TO BE THE PERFECT GIRLFRIEND Page 8
