“I’m assuming this isn’t about the free publicity, or the win. This is about Sheila. The way she smeared your name. This is personal.”
She shook her head, sending her hair tumbling across her back. “This is payback,” she corrected. “At least, it will be if I win. Not even win. As long as I place higher than she does.”
“You will.”
“Mayyyybe.” Her whole body slumped in on itself, like a Boston cream doughnut with the filling sucked out.
Gib grabbed her arms. “Look at me, Daphne.” Chin still down, she gazed up at him through the curtain of her lashes. “You will beat her for three reasons. Because you are genuinely more talented. Because that pilot light of revenge will fuel you to work harder. And because, quite simply, you must.”
A smile the width of the sunrise broke across her face. “Would you be willing to write down those talking points for me?”
“If necessary.” The urge to pull her into an embrace tilted him forward from the waist. Gib forced himself to let go. Still not the time or place. Not with the low drone of scattered applause every thirty seconds. Roll call would go a lot bloody faster if they didn’t have to clap after each name. There were only a handful of newcomers at each meeting. Why bother to clap for someone you’d seen every month for five years? Perhaps all this restraint toward Daphne had turned him cranky.
“Thanks, Gib. I guess you managed to sort me out after all.”
“Not entirely.” If Daphne could face her fear, by God, so could he. “I’d like to discuss one more item.”
She swiped a chip into enough guacamole to fill a piñata. “Sure.”
Gib shot his cuffs again. Put a hand to the knot in his tie. And rued the day he’d ever darkened Doc Debra’s door. The rumor that therapy should make you feel better? Utter rubbish. The rock of Gibraltar had lodged in his throat. Someone had vacuum-sealed all the air out of the room. An invisible elephant balanced on his diaphragm. He was a citizen of the British Empire. The urge to suppress emotions had to be encoded in his DNA.
“Daphne, I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Sure,” she repeated without looking up from loading her plate. “A couple of handfuls of cheese won’t begin to fill me up. Were you thinking pizza? Or I could go for a pad thai. We could take it back to my place and watch the new Bond flick. I just got it on DVD, so I can hit pause and stare at Daniel Craig till my eyes cross with sheer delight.”
If anyone made her eyes cross, it would bloody well be him. Not some poncy actor. Gib spoke through gritted teeth. “No, not tonight.”
“Well, I’ve got a lot of prep left for the DeWitt wedding on Saturday, so that’ll probably keep me at the shop pretty late tomorrow night. But if you want to swing by and split a pizza, that’s okay.”
Was she being deliberately obtuse? He’d never imagined Daphne to be a game player. “You don’t understand. I’d like to take you out on a proper date. Milo checked your schedule for me. No events on Sunday at all. Let’s go out on Sunday evening.”
Her mouth dropped open wide enough to take on a candied apple in one bite. Just for a heartbeat. When Daphne closed it, her eyes shuttered as well. “A date? A real date? You pick me up, I shave my legs even though it’s January, candles-and-wine-type date?”
“Yes.”
She cocked her head to the right. Abandoned her plate on the table to fist her hands at her waist. “Is this because I’m about to be famous? Now that I’m on television, I’m good enough to add to your rotating roster of arm candy?”
“Hardly.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Under normal circumstances, Daphne was the one person to whom he could say anything. Talk with utter ease. Now he’d dropped the dreaded four-letter word into the conversation. Gib had apparently also dropped all ability to string together a coherent thought. Immediate backpedaling was in order.
“No, I meant that you’ve always been immeasurably better than all the women with whom I’ve dallied.”
“Oh.” She waited a beat, then scooted to her right a few steps. “I need a drink for this conversation.” A few pre-filled champagne flutes were left on the end of the table. Daphne drained one, set it down, then picked up a second.
“Really?” Gib plucked the glass out of her hand and set it back down. “If you need alcohol to consider the mere idea, what sort of pharmaceutical cocktail will it require to get you through the actual date?”
“I haven’t agreed to it yet, have I?” With a jerk of her chin, she led him out the door. Gib followed her to a gold-and-crimson brocade divan recessed in an alcove. Instead of sitting, she paced in front of it.
“Why?” he asked.
“That’s my question. Why? Why now, after all this time?” She stabbed her fingers at her sternum. “Why me, after all those women?”
“Do you need a recounting of your finer points? How many compliments will it take to shake a ‘yes’ out of you?” Flowery compliments were the currency he used to bribe pretty strangers into dinner and drinks. Gib had thought that with Daphne he could be direct. Tell her that he wanted to spend time with her, without having to go through the whole song and dance as to why.
“I’m serious, Gib.” Daphne sat down, hands on her knees. She had to crane her head to look up at him. “You can’t just crook your finger and expect me to come running. Or, for that matter, potentially jeopardize a friendship that means the world to me. We can ignore one aphrodisiac-fueled night of flirting. A real date changes everything.”
“Quite right.” This entire ordeal brought to mind the memory of his first date ever, with Pippa Jones-Smythe. Her father, the Duke of Savoy, grilled him for a quarter of an hour. Gib was forced to stand an inch from the roaring fireplace the entire time. Sweat poured off his body. He’d locked his knees to keep them from shaking. And remembered thinking Pippa had damn well let him get to second base to justify all the trouble.
“So explain to me why I should date you.”
Gib pressed his fingers to his suddenly throbbing temples. She already knew him, liked him. Even loved him, as a friend. Why put him through this ringer? “I might remind you that I’m the number one bachelor in the city, according to Windy City magazine. They did put me on their cover this month. Apparently, I’m quite a catch. I promise I know how to show a girl a good time.”
“Bully for you. I already know how fun you are, Gib. We do stuff together all the time. That doesn’t explain why we should upgrade to the deluxe package.” The impassive mask finally lifted. Like a storm rolling in off the ocean, her eyes darkened. “What happens when the next B-list starlet checks in to your hotel? Or a leggy chorus girl doing eight shows a week at the Ford Oriental? You always go for a splash with your choice of date. I’m more of a puddle.”
Never would he have guessed insecurity loomed behind her relentless grilling. Or her reluctance to give him—them—a try. Gib sank down next to her, capturing her chin between his thumb and first finger. “First of all, I don’t date. I dally.”
“Really? You’re going to argue semantics with me?”
“Pay attention. I have assignations. Dinners, trysts. One, two, three nights at most. I don’t engage in meaningful emotional relationships.”
“Sounds like something your therapist would say.”
“She did. On multiple occasions.” The Suzuki method of learning violin—by repeating everything so many times a student had no choice but to learn? Doc Debra applied that to therapy.
Daphne jerked her chin out of his grasp. “Don’t try to psychobabble your way out of this.”
“But Doc Debra was right. I enjoy the company of women. The way they laugh, the way they smell like a summer day. The slow build-up to a seduction. From a shared smile on the street to tangling fingers over wine to—”
She leaned away from him, like a clothespin popping open. “Stop right there. I don’t want the X-rated version.”
“I don’t connect with any of those women. We flirt, we spend some mutually agreeable
time together, and we fall into bed. That’s where it ends.” Gib racked his brain for how to explain the difference to her. “I might mention the name of my first horse—”
“Archibald,” she said with a nod.
“—but none of them know that he died after missing a jump with a trainer. Or that when I heard the news, I hid in the tack room at Eton for twelve hours, remembering him. None of them know that I refuse to check my mailbox alone on my birthday. But you do.”
“Because you need someone to hold your hand when you realize your family didn’t send so much as a card. Again.”
“Right.” Gib took her hand. Brushed the back of it against his cheek. Now that he’d begun, it turned out to be simple sharing how he felt. Because Daphne was the one person he could tell anything.
“You’re the one who holds my hand. You’re the one who knows my secrets. You’re the one I can relax with, let down my guard. You’re the only one who knows the real me, not just the affable bachelor out for a good time. That’s why I want to date you. Because I think we’ve spent years already doing so, without realizing it. And without the kissing. Which is first-rate, might I add.”
Heat pinkened her cheeks. “You may.”
“As to your second point, I’ll overlook it. Chalk it up to your extreme hunger.” He frowned down his nose at her. “I’ll assume you didn’t mean to insult me by suggesting I’d be so disrespectful as to drop you for the next pair of stilettos that walks by. And you certainly didn’t mean to insult yourself by inferring you are anything less than gorgeous.”
Then Gib leaned into her, reaching around to stroke his fingers through the golden strands across her back. “Hair like silken sunshine. Breasts I’ve never been able to resist looking at. A smile that warms all the dark places in my heart.”
“See?” The sass he knew he could always count on from Daphne twinkled in her eyes. “If you’d started with that, I would’ve said yes right away. You shouldn’t make a girl wait, Gib.”
“You’ll change your tune.” Bringing his other arm around her waist in a loose embrace, he stared into eyes darkening from an entirely different sort of storm. “I’ll show you just how good it is when you wait. If you wait for the right person. Or the right thing.” Gib rimmed the edge of her ear with his tongue. A sharp nip to her earlobe made her quiver in his arms.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re Mr. Right?”
His usual involuntary reaction to that title would be a full-body shudder of horror. Gib tensed every muscle to prevent just that. Certainly, he wanted to take a big step here. But no reason to leap forward a mile. “No reason to throw around labels. I don’t want to—how did you put it? To simply forget our aphrodisiac-fueled night of flirting. A real date changes everything. And that’s what I’m hoping to do. To change from a friendship to a relationship. Or at least give it a go.”
“All right.” She scooted to the far end of the divan. The rolled arm was all that kept her from falling off. “But no sex.”
Gib scratched the back of his head. “You and I have very different definitions of the word relationship.”
Laughter pealed through the hall. “No. Trust me, if we do this, sex is definitely on the table.”
“You want to start on the table? Kinda kinky. Hard on the knees, but okay.”
The blush that had barely begun to fade reddened her cheeks once more. “The when and where can be up for discussion. No sex on our first real date. That’s the line in the sand. That way, if it doesn’t go well, it’ll be easier to go back to being friends.”
Reasonable. More than that—quite smart. He didn’t want to fuck up their friendship, either. “And if it does go well?”
“Make sure it does—” Daphne cast him a sidelong glance full of promise, “—and you’ll find out.”
.
Chapter Eight
Where flowers bloom so does hope ~ Lady Bird Johnson
Gib shifted the grocery bag higher against his shoulder. It kept slipping off of his thick gloves. With his other hand, he opened the door to Aisle Bound. It shone like an oasis of light in the dismal January morning. Three gray days in a row should hardly rate a complaint. Back home in London, three solid weeks of January could pass without the sun making more than a sporadic appearance. He’d gotten soft living here. Well, if one could describe walking through gale-force winds off the lake and surviving blizzards that drove the city to a standstill every year as soft.
“Shut the door. Or pay half our next heating bill,” Daphne threatened. “Your choice.” With sneakered feet propped up on the coffee table, Daphne sprawled bonelessly across the couch. She already wore her wedding-day uniform. A white shirt and jeans poked out from behind the full-length lavender apron. The same color bow wrapped her hair in a high ponytail. He’d seen her in these same clothes a hundred times. Daphne looked utterly normal. Sensible. Ready to walk innumerable laps through a church and reception site.
But today, his mind used a different filter to see his friend. And through that blue-balled lens, she looked adorable. Her position put thoughts into his mind. Thoughts of locking the door, peeling off her clothes and pressing her deeper into that couch. Maybe leaving her in just the apron? Gib blinked away the vision. Of course, the couch being white, Ivy would kill him if that ever happened.
“Ignore her mood. She’s been here since dawn.” Ivy took the bag from him and set it on Milo’s spotless desk. Her wedding-ready green taffeta skirt swished like leaves crackling underfoot. “Lisbet, our difficult bride du jour, called at midnight requesting three extra boutonnieres, a pomander ball instead of petals for the flower girl, and a bathroom arrangement.”
“I can top that.” Gib tugged off gloves. “The prince of a tiny but wealthy country—”
Daphne popped upright. She adored his stories of esoteric guest demands. “Which one?”
“That would be telling. The Cavendish Grand is known for complete confidentiality.” Which he’d never violate. Dropping a hint, however, put all the legwork on Daphne. And made it fun. He unwound his cashmere scarf. “As he’s official visiting royalty, we are flying his flag. In case you find yourself driving past later.”
“Oh, I’ll find a reason. Go on.”
Gib forced himself to slowly undo his coat. Remembering the string of idiotic, destructive things the prince did? It tensed his fingers enough to snap off the buttons like a stripper pulling off his breakaway pants. “The royal jackass proceeded to draw a dartboard on a six-hundred-thread-count pillowcase. He hung it over an antique wall mirror and was shocked to discover that chucking steak knives at it caused it to shatter.”
“Drunk?” Sam ambled into the room. Both hands supported a napkin-draped tray. With the caution of a bomb demolition expert, he placed it in the middle of the coffee table.
“After five bottles of Cristal? I imagine so.” Gib hung up his coat on the tree near the door while he watched a standoff between Sam and Daphne. Hands laced on top of his head, Sam stared at Daphne. Actually, he glared at her hard enough to melt glass back down into sand. Huffing, she took her feet off the table.
Amused by the ferocity of their nonverbal squabbling, Gib continued. “Not so drunk he couldn’t feel the subzero cold when he walked out onto the penthouse balcony. I had to wake up my head maintenance tech at two in the morning to get heat out there for him.”
“That must’ve cost you.” Sam nudged the tray an extra millimeter toward the center. What the hell did he have hiding under that napkin? Gold-plated truffles?
“Tony hijacked me for courtside Bulls tickets the next time the Pistons are in town. We piled into his truck, woke up Rob over at Everything Events and got four patio heaters.”
Ivy crossed her arms over her lace top. Funny how formal wear took the sting out of her outraged expression. “You got Rob—cranky Rob who barely grunts unless I flirt outrageously with him—to answer his business line at two a.m.?”
“This isn’t the first time—or even the twentieth time—he’s had
to help us out. Rob’s cell is on my speed dial.” That privilege cost Gib a hundred dollars a month retainer. And every month, somebody like the prince ended up more than covering it for him. “Once the heaters were running, His Highness still wasn’t warm enough. This time I hightailed it over to Macy’s State Street, to pick up a full-length sable coat from Kathy DeWitt.”
“You have the cell number to the manager of the Fur Vault, too?” She sank onto the sofa, shaking her head in disbelief.
That one didn’t cost him a monthly retainer. It came as a perk of a hot weekend that consisted of box seats at the Goodman, dinner at Charlie Trotter’s and breakfast served naked the next morning. Better for Daphne not to know the specifics. “Being hooked in and hooked up is a big part of managing a hotel. There isn’t anyone in this city I can’t reach at a moment’s notice. I could get the mayor over here with a five-minute head start.”
Daphne threw her hands in the air. “What would the mayor do here?”
Gib dropped his voice to a growl. “Anything you want. Just say the word.” While she giggled, he poured a cup of coffee. See? Nothing had changed. Their dynamic as friends remained as easy and comfortable as ever. They’d stay best friends, with the added potential bonus of hopefully frequent sex. What could be better?
“Can you finish the story of your problematic prince later?” asked Ivy. She popped off the couch and crossed to tug at the sleeve of his gray sweater. “I’m too excited to wait any longer.”
“What about Ben? Shouldn’t he be here for this?” A glance at his watch told Gib they didn’t have more than an hour before the Aisle Bound crew would have to leave for their wedding.
Friends To Lovers (Aisle Bound Book 3) Page 12
