She picked up her cell phone and dialed Chino’s.
TWENTY-THREE
WHILE CHLOE WAS LISTENING TO COLIN say “cool” about a thousand times on the other end of the phone connection, Rocco was trying to decide how to answer the buyer from Neiman Marcus, who had just asked him out for dinner and was smiling at him now, waiting for an answer.
The cosmetics buyer was a small, petite, expensively dressed brunette and very attractive. He was debating how she’d respond to a no. Intellectually, he knew better than to turn her down. “I’d like that,” he said with an inward groan. “The Mansion at Turtle Creek?” he offered, since she’d suggested it.
“That’s perfect. Shall we?” She put out her hand.
It was the strangest feeling he’d ever had—not wanting to touch her. He’d never experienced a squeamishness like that before, and in compensation for his curious reluctance, he grasped her hand a little too hard. He smiled. “Sorry.”
Having read her own meaning into his strong grip, Sarah Lu Bonner smiled back and said, in a soft Texas drawl, “Don’t be sorry, darlin’. It feels gooood . . .”
Oh Christ. Would she still honor the large order she’d just given him if he didn’t sleep with her? Although this wasn’t the first time a buyer had hit on him, it was the first time he’d be losing his own money if she took offense when he said no. Shit. He needed a drink. Or better yet, he’d see if she’d have a drink and shift her focus from him.
It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all he had.
In hindsight, he wouldn’t have had to worry. Sarah Lu had a mighty thirst for champagne. When she asked for a third bottle, he said, “Maybe we should have coffee instead.”
She’d given him one of those clear, direct looks that said without words, “You must not have heard what I said,” and he waved the wine steward over and ordered another bottle of champagne. So dinner cost him eight hundred bucks because she like Grand Dame Veuve Clicquot. It turned out to be a bargain.
She ended up talking about herself pretty much exclusively—her childhood, her schooling, her two marriages that had foundered. At which point he’d had to express the necessary concern when he couldn’t remember if it had been Jeb or Buck who had driven her crazy by wearing cowboy boots with his shorts. She’d gone on to discuss in great detail her rise through the ranks at Neiman Marcus, and all he had to do was nod on occasion or say, “How interesting,” or smile at appropriate intervals while he surreptitiously checked his watch.
But she seemed not to notice, and in reality, Rocco was more than willing to listen in lieu of having to rebuff possible sexual advances—a fact he was more than aware separated him from the Rocco of old who hadn’t actually understood the word “rebuff.”
Then again, since he’d met Chloe, nothing had been the same.
He hadn’t been in the habit of turning down sex before.
He definitely hadn’t pined for a woman like some lovesick troubadour or country-western singer.
Nor had he thought about counting the minutes until he saw any certain woman again.
While Sarah Lu declined coffee, he ordered some for himself. His level of interest was beginning to fade as she launched into a long list of her husbands’ emotional defects. Not that anyone could fault him for that. Men weren’t good about discussing feelings or listening to discussions about feelings. The coffee definitely helped.
She was still marginally awake on the cab ride to her place, but he was able to withstand her advances with deftness and flattery as they traveled through Dallas. But he truly believed in miracles when she passed out just as they reached her apartment building.
Carrying her into the lobby of the building, he gave the doorman a handsome tip to open the door of her apartment and stay with him while he deposited Sarah Lu on her couch. He wanted a witness—just in case.
“Thanks,” he said to the man as they took the elevator back down to the lobby. “She had a little too much to drink at dinner.”
“Veuve Clicquot?” the doorman said with a grin.
“Lots of it.”
“Mansion at Turtle Creek?”
Rocco smiled. “You must be a mind reader.”
“You’re a real polite young man,” the older man said as the elevator came to a stop on the ground floor.
“I’m getting married,” Rocco said, the words tumbling out compliments of his obsession and the Veuve Clicquot.
“Congratulations.”
“I haven’t actually asked her yet. What day is it?” It seemed as though he’d been away from Minneapolis for weeks.
“Monday”—the doorman looked at his watch—“almost Tuesday.”
Rocco sighed. “I gotta last ’til Friday.” He blew out a breath and looked around. “I suppose the cab left.”
“I’ll get you one.”
Rocco started adding up the minutes until Friday as he waited for his cab.
If you’re hooked, you’re hooked. He gave in.
TWENTY-FOUR
IT WAS THE LONGEST WEEK OF CHLOE’S life.
Rocco would agree, although for different reasons. Colin was persistent, determined and unwilling to be deterred. On those evenings when Chloe told him not to come over, he came over anyway and banged on her door until she let him in. It was either that or have the neighbors call the cops, and he wasn’t unruly, just wistful and eager and bearing gifts—little things like books and those touchy-feely cards and stuffed teddy bears, bigger things like a barbecue grill because he noticed she didn’t have one. It had never occurred to him that she didn’t have one for a reason. But she thanked him politely and let him grill steaks for them that turned out really delicious and altered her thinking about barbecue grills. He brought over flowers and eggplants too, putting the first in vases and cooking the second in a ratatouille that was truly fabulous. The boy was talented in more than bartending and bed.
But it didn’t seem to matter how talented he was or how solicitous, Chloe couldn’t find it in her heart to return his passion in equal measure. Or even in lesser measure. And she was seriously beginning to wonder if there was something wrong with her—what with Sebastian and Colin and other suitors too numerous to recall—that she couldn’t seem to get past the good sex to something more meaningful and permanent.
Did she have some emotional blank in her genome band?
Or had she just made some bad choices?
Should she have gone out with more staid, conventional men? “Not in a million years” came to mind when she asked herself that question, but still she wondered. . . .
And she was beginning to feel nervous too, wondering what she was going to say to Colin, how she was going to tell him that she didn’t want to see him again. Because she didn’t—not really—even with the fabulous sex.
She was worried about how he’d react—whether she’d hurt him long term.
She worried about herself—whether she had the capacity to love or whether these great feelings during sex were a kind of love and she just didn’t know it.
Although if she was in search of the Holy Grail of love, Rocco—who figured rather largely in her thoughts—couldn’t really be considered a candidate in her quest. Even semi-bereft of reason as she seemed to be of late, she wasn’t that gullible or disingenuous.
Which brought her back to the same old question.
Was what she felt for Rocco love or something else?
Or didn’t she have a clue?
Her friends were no help. Tess kept telling her she was the luckiest woman on earth to have Colin in love with her. Rosie was so involved with Ian and their new puppy that she was living in some zoned-out nirvana where wishes came true, the sun never set and dogs were named Toto. Seriously. They named their puppy Toto.
So Chloe was on her own. Her friends were as clueless as she.
* * *
ROCCO WORKED HIS ass off that week, sold tons of product—his new, rather good plan, if he said so himself, having to do with paying off Jim as soon as possible. He
worked twenty-hour days on the road, made a series of phone calls back home to an advertiser he knew, made more calls to Mary Beth, who was ecstatic with his sales, made a few too many to Anthony, who finally said, angrily, one night at ten, “Don’t call me again. I’ll have your stuff by Friday.”
Some people were more cranky than others, Rocco cheerfully reflected, hanging up, his mood having lightened considerably as the orders kept coming in, as he began to see some light at the end of the tunnel, as Friday approached.
* * *
CHLOE FINALLY TOLD Colin on Thursday morning, after several nights of sleepovers, that she needed some time for herself. “Sweetie, I’m not getting enough sleep to make it through the day. My projects are piling up, and much as I enjoy your company, I need a few days off.” She was never good at saying good-bye. She always figured she’d think of something in a few days.
“How many days?” He was lounging on her bed, nude and virile and scowling just a little.
“Two days. Call me Saturday.”
“I’ll come over Saturday.”
“Fine. Come over Saturday.” She was such a coward.
“Don’t go out with anyone else.”
“Hey.” She turned from her closet and gave him a look.
“Sorry . . . I’m just jealous as hell.”
“I don’t want you to be jealous.”
“You’re going out with someone.”
“I’m not going out with anyone, but if I were, I wouldn’t have to get permission from you. Understood?”
“Sorry.” He rolled off the bed, came over to her, pulled her into his arms and held her for a moment. “I’m really sorry. I have to go now, right?”
“I have to get to work. I have a client coming in at nine.”
He brushed a fall of hair from her forehead. “I’m crazy for you.”
“You can be crazy for me on Saturday.” She just wanted him to go; she wanted to have some time to sort out the chaos in her brain. Mostly, she wanted to meet her client in more than her underwear.
“Saturday,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on her cheek and stepping away. He picked up his jeans, slipped them on, grabbed his sandals and shirt and left with a smile and a wave.
Life was less complex at twenty-one, she thought, watching him walk through her bedroom door. He traveled with a pair of jeans and a shirt and lived for the moment.
When had she stopped living that way?
When had she started to think about a future—not in terms of a career or paying off her mortgage or buying a new car . . . but in terms of wanting to be with someone for more than a night or two or ten?
Unfortunately she knew the answer to that question when so many of her other questions went unanswered.
Now if only the man she wanted wasn’t engaged to someone else.
* * *
WHEN THE PHONE rang just as Robin Williams was finishing his interview on Leno, Chloe was still chuckling as she said, “Hello.”
“Do you have company?”
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, an excited little voice inside her head cried. But a second later, she responded to the gruffness in his voice instead. “I should be asking you that. It’s more likely, isn’t it?”
“I’m in Chicago.”
“So? There are plenty of women in Chicago.”
“There’s no woman here. I’m alone.”
His voice was low, neutral and even then her heart was beating in quadruple-time. Come over and make love to me, come over and let me touch you, come over so I can chain you to my bed and keep you forever. “What do you want?” she asked instead.
“You’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m realistic. What do you want? Besides a quick lay when you’re in the mood and away from your fiancée?”
“That’s not what I want. I’ve been thinking about you. I’ve been on the road all week, selling product so we can get out from under our financial obligations sooner.”
“Good for you. Does that mean getting out from under little Amy too, or does she like the missionary position?”
She could practically hear him count to ten in his head, but she didn’t care.
“I already told you nothing’s going on.”
“I hear she likes black leather and cuffs. I wouldn’t think you’d turn that down.”
“I don’t care what she likes.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah and this is my real hair color.”
“I don’t want to fight. I didn’t call you to fight.”
“What the hell did you call for?”
“I wanted to hear your voice.”
“Pul-eese.”
“Even when you’re a bitch.” Which just added another building block to his fucking tower of love. Now he knew how Waylon Jennings felt.
“You’re still not free and clear, babe. Maybe I’ll stop being a bitch when I hear those chains snap.”
“And maybe I’ll tie you up again and make you beg like you did before.”
“Fuck you.” But a rush, a ripple, a violent spasm of arousal vibrated up her vagina when she remembered what they’d done with the whipped cream; she could feel the flush rising on her cheeks. “I’m going to hang up if you talk like that.”
There was something in her voice that gave him hope. “Don’t hang up.”
“Then, be good.” Oh, God, she shouldn’t have said it like that.
It was amazing how he could recognize the nuances in her voice. “I wish you were here with me.”
“I wish a lot of things, but most of them aren’t going to happen. Like world peace and equality for women and hair straightener that doesn’t leave goop on your hair.”
“The Chicago shoreline is all lit up. I’m on the fifteenth floor.”
“I don’t care about the Chicago shoreline.”
“I think I’m in love with you.”
“I think your fiancée won’t like that.” But she was having trouble breathing and all her stupid hopeful dreams came rushing back without regard for harsh, nitty-gritty reality.
“I’m going to straighten all that out when I get back.”
“I’m not a virgin in case you hadn’t noticed; I don’t like to be snowed just for the sake of a lay. Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, I can be persuaded to make love to you without a lot of unnecessary lies.”
“No lie. Tomorrow when I get back. It’s second on my agenda after seeing you.”
“Jeez, Rocco, I wish you wouldn’t do this to me. Let’s not start any of this until—well . . . until—you do whatever you have to do and it’s done.”
“Do you love me?”
“No.” Unless thinking of him every waking minute counted.
“Maybe later you will.”
“Don’t talk in such a reasonable tone.” He made her sound like a petulant child.
“I’ve had all week to think about this. Hotel rooms are damned empty and cold. It gives one time to reflect.”
Now she really felt immature. While he was reflecting, she was sleeping with practically a teenager and whining about it, even. Although she reminded herself that Rocco still had a fiancée. He wasn’t completely mature and virtuous and pure. She sighed—because none of that mattered when she thought of him lying all alone in his hotel room. When she wanted more than anything to be there with him. “Sometimes I wish I’d never met you in that elevator. You’ve really fucked up my life.”
“I’m going to fix everything.”
She sighed again. “Like Dr. Seuss’s fix-it-up chappy?”
“Better. I know how much you like whipped cream. I’ll fix some of that too.”
Maybe there were times when you just had to go with the flow. Maybe she’d lived her life that way for twenty-seven years and there was no point in changing things now. Maybe she wanted to see him more than she wanted to be right. “A man who knows his way around the kitchen definitely gets points in my book.”
“How about a man who knows his way around your sunporch?”
�
�He gets double points.”
He heard the smile in her voice.
“And just for the record, you didn’t actually tie me up. I don’t like to be tied up. I wouldn’t let anyone do that.”
“I know.” Her wrists had been tied for maybe twenty seconds with a pink ribbon before he’d seen that look in her eyes and untied it.
She wanted to separate herself from Miss Handcuffs and Black Leather. Call her bitchy. Call her jealous as hell. Call her so messed up with wanting him she found herself saying, “How big is your bed?” Like it mattered when he was four hundred miles away.
He laughed. “Too damned big without you. Come closer.”
“You come here.”
“Have you moved the hassock yet?”
She almost didn’t answer; she shouldn’t have answered. It was just going to make her wanting him go off the charts. “No.”
“Perfect.”
“It’s not perfect.”
“I thought it was. I thought it was about as near to heaven as I’d ever been.”
Silence. A lengthening silence. He was all set to apologize.
“Maybe it was,” she softly said, unable to lie about something so fine.
“No maybe,” he said as softly. “I remember. You were shaking; we both were.”
“Don’t. Okay? Are you still dressed?” Lust was better, easier—safer. The rest was too hard, unfathomable, bitter and sad.
Until he had his life back on track, he was more than willing to play instead of pay. He understood. “Uh-uh, no clothes,” he said in a deep, husky murmur. “I’m sitting on the hassock in the middle of your sunporch, waiting for you to come closer.”
“I didn’t invite you in.”
“Yeah, you did. You left your shoes on the stairs and your dress in the hallway and from where I’m sitting, you look inviting as hell.”
“Maybe you misunderstood.”
“I don’t think so. The words ‘come fuck me’ got my attention.”
Hot Pink Page 15
