Jasmine allowed herself to be steered through the milling crowd, nodding to familiar faces, fairly trotting to keep up with Mr. Elam's pace. His eyes darted in all directions and he kept one arm half-curled a few inches from her waist, as if he intended to keep everyone away from her—or keep her away from everyone.
They moved past a ballroom where a jazz band played, and threaded their way through several smaller rooms, each of which boasted a different theme with corresponding decorations and food. Heads turned her way and she noticed lingering glances and knowing smirks. She lifted her chin a little higher and painted on a bright smile, but inside she trembled—not out of fear of what people might be saying about her and Ladden Sanderson, but because of the guilt niggling her stomach.
No matter how much she wanted it not to be true, even here in the company of the city's most powerful professionals she felt an inexplicable connection to and an undeniable longing for the quiet man who ran the antiques store on Pacific Street.
"There you are, my dear." Trey's deep voice broke into her thoughts, bringing her surroundings into focus. The governor looked regal in a dark suit, holding court in a room decorated with an Oriental flair, beneath elaborate paper dragons streaming across the ceiling. With clean-cut boyish looks and just the right amount of gray at his fair temples, he was a striking man. His dazzling smile appeared to be only for her as he turned away from a group of suited constituents. "You look beautiful, as always," he whispered before lowering a kiss to her cheek. Immediately, flashbulbs exploded around them.
Jasmine blinked and glanced over her shoulder—directly into more flashes. A knot of photographers loitered near the governor, pouncing without delay when she arrived.
"Ms. Crowne, is it true your car was towed yesterday for a parking violation?"
"Yes," she admitted and lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. "I thought the parking meter had time left on it—it didn't. My mistake, and I paid for it."
"And is it true, Ms. Crowne, that a junk dealer named Ladden Sanderson drove you to your condo last night?"
She felt Trey stiffen, but she knew he wouldn't say anything in front of the cameras. "Yes, I had just left from making a purchase at Mr. Sanderson's antiques store when I discovered my car had been towed."
"Ms. Crowne, I have a witness who says you were seen with Mr. Sanderson last night at a bar called"—the man referred to his notes— "Tabby's."
A slow flush climbed her neck. "I was told I could find a phone at Tabby's, which is a family restaurant. Mr. Sanderson's family owns the establishment, and he happened to be there when I asked for a telephone."
"Do you frequent that bar, ma'am?"
"No, it was the first time I'd ever been there."
"And Mr. Sanderson just happened to be there?"
"That's correct."
"And he offered to drive you home?"
"Yes."
"And you accepted?"
She bit her tongue, fighting to control her rising anger. "Yes."
"Did he go in?"
A murmur traveled the crowd and Trey made a move to speak, but she silenced him with a nudge. "That, sir, is absolutely none of your business," she said evenly. "But since you'll print some half-truth if I don't respond, no, Mr. Sanderson did not come in."
"Governor McDonald, would you and Ms. Crowne care to comment about the billboards linking her romantically to Ladden Sanderson?"
Trey squeezed her against him and gave the reporter a cajoling smile. "Although I can clearly see why Ms. Crowne would attract her share of admirers, the signs were just a practical joke. Lighten up, folks."
"Ms. Crowne?"
She smiled broadly into the sea of onlookers, her heart thumping in her chest. "I think the governor summed up the situation."
"So you and Mr. Ladden are simply friends?"
"Business acquaintances," she corrected, distracted briefly by someone walking outside the window across the room. The man's head and shoulders were obscured by whatever he was carrying, but for some reason, the way he moved reminded her of Ladden. She glanced back to the audience and leaned closer to Trey, chiding herself. On the arm of the governor, no less, and she was thinking about another man!
"Governor McDonald, if you win the election, will the mansion remain a bachelor pad?"
Jasmine felt her cheeks grow even warmer as Trey chuckled and addressed the man. "Stan, if I ever decide to get married, I'm sure you'll know about it before I will."
The crowd laughed in appreciation. As always when they were in public, she stood in awe of Trey. He handled everyone so smoothly and with such confidence. And although he had assured her she would become more comfortable in the public eye as time passed, she had to admit that right now the idea of attending functions at the side of the most influential man in the state was far more appealing than actually doing it. In fact, her head was definitely starting to hurt, and wearing new high heels was proving to be a poor decision. She needed an aspirin and a Band-Aid.
Thankfully, another reporter asked a question that diverted attention from her to the more sobering subject of the drop in the governor's popularity in recent polls. Joseph Elam stepped in to point out that a Los Angeles paper had conducted an extensive survey that proved lobbyists supported the opponent, but the public supported Governor McDonald. "If every registered voter in California goes to the polls and votes their conscience, Governor McDonald will win by a landslide," Elam insisted. "But stay home, and you'll watch the governor's office be handed over to special interest groups."
"I think he wants my job," Trey whispered in her ear, causing her to smile.
"I think I'll mingle," she whispered back, and he gently released her.
"You look a little pale," he said, his brow wrinkling. "Are you feeling all right?"
"It's been quite a day," she said with as much cheer as possible. "I just need some air."
"I'll cover for you," he said with a wink. "But don't forget about me."
"Don't worry," she said, escaping in the direction of the patio. Appropriately, the theme outside resembled a luau, with tropical plants and servers wearing brightly colored shirts. Jasmine smiled at the scene. The pretty caterer, in her snug outfit, had attracted the attention of two state representatives.
Amid the wonderful-smelling food and the island music drifting on the balmy air, she tried to immerse herself in the festive mood. She spoke to a few acquaintances, deftly dodging their questions about the billboards. One tipsy woman commented on how ruggedly handsome the antiques dealer appeared in a clip on the news, and could Jasmine steer him her way since she was currently occupied with the governor?
The painful blister developing on her heel suddenly seemed unbearable, and she was grateful for the honest excuse to make her getaway.
A turbaned waiter from the Middle Eastern room walked by, his arms laden with a tray of exotic food. "Excuse me, sir," Jasmine said, touching his arm.
"Yes?" the man asked, offering a gap-toothed smile.
A memory chord chimed in the back of her mind, but she couldn't place the man. "Could you direct me to the nearest ladies' room?"
He nodded. "Beyond those trees, you will find what you are looking for."
"Thank you." She turned and walked slowly around the patio, favoring her throbbing foot, cursing her vanity. However, once she made her way down a sloping footpath, her spirits lifted at the visual treat that lay before her.
A long, curving pool cast an aqua glow in the darkness, supplemented by floating candles. All poolside chairs had been removed, and the area appeared completely deserted, which seemed a shame. Away from the towering brightness of the hotel, the millions of stars twinkling above seemed close enough to pluck if she stood on tiptoe.
"A magical night," she whispered, then sighed as she remembered Ladden's abandoned question. Jasmine, do you believe in magic?
Did she? When she was a child, she had often gazed out of her tiny bedroom window and wished on every shooting star, wished to be whisked far, far
away. Yet it hadn't been magic that had delivered her into a world of opportunity—it had been sheer determination, a legal name change, and privately renouncing her only relative: her angry father.
She laughed, a soft, hollow sound. The move from Glenhayden didn't represent a great distance in miles, but comparing her life now to the one she'd left behind, she might as well be far, far away. Jasmine looked up to see a falling star shooting across the heavens, flashing, then petering out like a spent sparkler. She smiled. Perhaps magic had played a part in her life after all.
Shaking her head to clear her musings, she limped toward the changing rooms at the far end of the pool area and tugged on the door marked Women. The latch refused to budge, despite her best efforts and a futile pounding of her fist. Frustrated, she glanced at the door marked Men. It opened easily. She stuck her head inside and listened for sounds of activity, but only silence greeted her. A first aid kit hanging on the wall inside the door clinched her decision. She would only be a moment...
* * *
Ladden wiped down the last chair and tossed the soiled cloth in a crate in the back of his delivery truck. Slowly he swung to the ground and reached back to ease the last stack of chairs to his shoulder. Leveraging the weight with his legs, he exhaled and wished he'd thought to bring a towel to protect his best white dress shirt. Oh, well, maybe his jacket would hide the worst of the smudges from the dozens of chairs he'd delivered to the patio. Not that the rest of his outfit mattered since Betsy had begged him to don a horrible Hawaiian print tie in keeping with the luau theme—although he had drawn the line at wearing a plastic lei.
The long, narrow path between the service parking lot and the patio smacked of pisspoor planning on the part of some architect, he thought irritably as he shuffled his way toward the music and bright lights. Once he arrived, Betsy abandoned her post behind the chicken and fruit kabob station to help him situate the chairs around the perimeter of the crowded brick patio.
"Thanks," she whispered, her face filled with anxiety. Her curly red hair sprang around her face, wet with perspiration and humidity. Seductively tucked into a long Hawaiian print skirt and matching halter top, Betsy looked like a slightly wilted flower.
"Hey, relax," he said with a wink. "You're doing great—the food's a big hit."
"Think so?" she asked, glancing around. "Frank called me at the last minute to fill in for him. If I do a good job maybe he'll call again."
Ladden twisted to take in their brightly lit backdrop. "The entire hotel is hopping. Who's giving this party?"
Betsy shrugged. "Somebody rich, I suppose. All I know is Frank's paying me cash." She swiped at his shoulder. "Oh, your shirt is a mess. I'm sorry."
He waved off her concern. "Don't worry about it—but I think I'll duck into the men's room for a little repair. Is there anything else I can do?"
"I might need you to find the ice man when you get back."
"Sure thing." He craned his neck, looking for a rest room sign.
"Ladden."
He turned back, his eyebrows raised.
"You're the best." Betsy's eyes shone with gratitude and affection.
Ladden swallowed and shifted nervously. Why couldn't he simply fall for Betsy? After all, she was pretty and sweet. It was high time he got the silly notion of Jasmine Crowne out of his head. He gave her a fond smile. "Thanks, Betsy. I'll be right back."
He stopped to retrieve his dark suit jacket from a shelf under one of the skirted tables. The pungent smell of warm chlorine led him across a concrete footpath, away from the crowd, to a large kidney-shaped pool dotted with floating candles.
A dimly lit changing house sat at the opposite end, and he headed toward the men's side, already rolling up his sleeves. Whistling under his breath, he pushed open the heavy wood door and stepped into the large bathroom, the soles of his stiff shoes scraping on the terra-cotta-tiled floor.
A gasp and a movement stopped him in his tracks and he nearly choked in surprise. "Jasmine?"
Standing crookedly beside a padded bench in an area surrounded by lockers, she clutched one black high-heeled shoe to her chest. "Ladden?"
He simply stared at her for several seconds, then his words tumbled out around hers: "What—"
"—are you—"
"—doing here?"
The overhead lights caught the highlights in her upswept hair and bathed her skin with a sunkissed glow. Desire flooded his body and he fought to maintain control. She was stunning, even wearing a puzzled expression.
"Didn't you imagine I would be attending a political rally for Governor McDonald?"
Incredulous, he raked his hand through his hair. "I'm here helping a friend. I had no idea this party was for the governor." He glanced around the room. "But what are you doing here?"
She held up a small adhesive bandage. "A blister. The ladies’ room is locked."
Their compromising situation struck him full force and he began a slow retreat. "Oh, hell—the media will fry us if anyone sees us." He held up his hand. "I'll go out first. Wait ten minutes, and if you don't hear anything, the coast is clear."
"Okay," she agreed, her eyes wide. "Goodbye."
His heart slammed against his ribs so hard, the beat echoed deep in his ears. When he felt the door at his back, he turned and yanked the latch. When the door refused to budge, he put more muscle behind it. Only after he set aside his jacket, used both hands, and still the door wouldn't give did panic begin to mushroom in his chest.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice squeaky.
"The door's stuck."
"Well, unstick it!"
"I'm trying." He braced his foot against the frame and pulled on the rusty latch with all his might. After jiggling the knob side to side, he said, "I think it's locked. Didn't you say you couldn't get inside the women's rest room?"
Her eyes closed briefly. "Yes."
"Maybe the latches are faulty."
"Oh, my God." She dropped her shoe and covered her mouth with her hands.
"Okay, don't panic," he said, more for his benefit than for Jasmine's. "Maybe there's another way out." He walked into the locker area and studied the high windows around the perimeter of the room. After testing a small table for sturdiness, he climbed up and succeeded in cranking open a window—six inches.
"I can't even get my hand out to wave a flag for help," he said.
"We can't attract attention, anyway." Her voice trembled. "You and I locked in a bathroom together—this would look very, very bad."
He pulled out his phone. "I’ll call the friend I came here to help. She’ll come down to let us out." Then he sighed and held up his phone. "No signal. You?"
She opened her purse and retrieved her phone, then her shoulders fell. "No. What are we going to do?"
"Someone will find us."
"But we can't be found!" Jasmine rocked back and forth on the bench. She'd discarded the other shoe and sat with her bare feet on the tiled floor. "Half of Sacramento already thinks we're having an affair thanks to those billboards!"
"I know," he said miserably. "I'm sorry."
"The last thing Trey needs right now is a full-fledged scandal."
"I know," he repeated, walking over to her. "Believe me, I'm sorry."
She glanced up at him. "I don't suppose that well-intended friend of yours had anything to do with this."
Ladden pursed his lips—then shook his head. "Gene wouldn't go that far."
"Gene?"
He lowered himself to the bench, a good distance from where she sat. "This old homeless guy who says"—he laughed—"who says he lived in the copper lamp you bought and is going to grant me three wishes for releasing him from bondage."
A strange smile curved her mouth. "You mean, this guy thinks he's magic?"
"Something like that." He felt his ears growing hot.
"How on earth did you meet this strange person?"
"Remember the day of the earthquake tremor?"
"Yes."
"He must have been
walking by my store when it happened because when things settled down, I found him sitting in front of the counter."
"That's odd."
"The next thing I know he's calling me Master and ranting about granting me three wishes."
She laughed, a tinkling sound that stirred his blood. "He sounds like one for the books."
"Definitely."
"Well," she said in a teasing voice, "did you make your wishes?"
Ladden debated for a moment whether to reveal the rest of the story, the bizarre coincidences, the weird goings-on with the carpet. Hell, for all she knew, he could have followed her here tonight and planned this entire episode.
"Ladden," she said more softly, with a slight catch in her voice, "did you make your wishes?"
Chapter Ten
JASMINE STARED at the dark-haired man next to her, her throat dry. Of course, the very concept of wishes being granted was preposterous, but his hesitation spoke volumes.
He exhaled noisily, puffing out his smooth cheeks, then met her gaze. "I, um... I did inadvertently say, um, a couple of things aloud that... happened."
The hair stood up on her arms. "Wh-what things?"
After an awkward laugh, he said, "Well, I was a little frustrated with the tremor damage yesterday, and my place is getting so crowded, I sort of wished aloud that my neighbor would retire and give me her storefront."
"And?"
"And this morning she announced she was going to retire and wanted to give me her storefront."
The story sounded too fantastic. "Had she ever hinted at doing such a thing?"
Ladden shook his head. "No. We've been friends for years, and I kind of helped her with the repairs and stuff after her husband died, but I never expected—or dreamed—something like this would happen. It was just a crazy statement, something off the top of my head."
"Does she have children?"
"No."
"Then it's possible she meant to give you the space all along and simply hadn't mentioned it."
"That's what I thought... at first."
Mad About You Page 44
