“You have insurance, right?” Megan asked.
“Yes, but I think she’s after more than free physical therapy. She told someone the other day she was going to sue me,” Raine said. Her mouth trembled. “I was just about to start franchising. She’ll ruin me.”
“No she won’t. Have your lawyer send her a letter telling her to cease and desist slandering you or you’ll be forced to take legal action. That should make her go away.”
“I don’t have a lawyer on retainer,” Raine said, sounding panicked.
It was like a gift from Cupid, a little gray cloud right here in front of her. “As a business person, you should. And meanwhile I’d be happy to write this woman a letter on our Weisman, Waters, and Green stationery. That should put the fear of God in her.”
“Would you? That would be great.”
“Not a problem,” Megan said, standing. “Just get me her name and address and I’ll take care of it for you. But you really should think about what I said. It’s a good idea to have a lawyer on retainer, especially as your business grows.”
Raine looked at her eagerly. “Would you be my lawyer? Do you handle this sort of thing?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. And I’d be happy to be your lawyer,” Megan said.
She was grinning like a woman who had just won a landmark case when she left. Yes! She had just brought in her first client. Granted, it was a small business, but hey, small businesses needed love, too. Maybe becoming a rainmaker wasn’t so much about working a room as being interested in people and what happened to them. That, she was finding, was something she could do.
She got in her little gray Saturn and punched on the radio. Gwen Stefani was singing “Sweet.” That was a good word to describe how this day had ended. No big romance, no tangled sheets, but Megan had just taken a bite of a sweet future, and that was a big enough buzz for her.
Kizzy had promised to serve Lionel all his favorite food for Valentine’s Day. She’d stopped on the way home and picked up a bucket of fried chicken and some Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. Then she’d made garlic mashed potatoes, cornbread, and a big tossed salad. They were going to have a Valentine feast tonight.
But Lionel came home with little appetite, not even for the sugar-free chocolates he’d brought her.
“What’s wrong, Lion?” she asked, reaching across the table and laying a hand on his arm.
He shoved away his plate. “I guess I’m not very hungry.”
“I can see that. But you’ve been waiting all week for this meal. What’s going on?”
“You remember Joe Moran?”
“From work? The big man with the beard?”
Lionel nodded. “He had a stroke today.”
“Oh, no. Have you heard anything? Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know. He was diabetic.”
“Stroke sometimes comes with the territory if you don’t watch it. Poor man.” Kizzy was borderline, herself. She pushed her plate away, too.
“He said once that the doctor had been after him to lose weight, that if he didn’t things were just going to get worse.”
Kizzy looked at Lionel’s gut and felt a shadow pass over her. What would happen to Lionel if he kept on snacking for two?
“On the way home I heard something on the radio,” he continued morosely.
Had someone famous died? “What?”
“Did you know that some doctor has found a link between prostate cancer and obesity?”
Lionel wasn’t obese. He was just … on his way. The shadow got bigger. “Does that worry you?”
He frowned. “Hell, yeah.”
“Maybe you need to make some changes so you won’t get obese,” Kizzy said, trying to keep her voice gentle.
He pushed away from the table and marched off.
Well, this was a romantic Valentine’s Day. “Lion,” Kizzy called, running after him.
He didn’t say anything, just kept marching to the garage. She followed him and watched gape-mouthed as he made a raid on his junk-food stash. He flipped open the toolbox, yanked out the candy bars, and hurled them into the garbage. Next went the Pringles. She watched in amazement as he pulled junk food from places she never would have dreamed of looking.
“Go, Lion,” she said, and applauded him.
When he was done he marched back over to her and stood, legs apart, hands on his hips, like a gladiator claiming victory. “I don’t need that shit.”
“Oh, Lion, that’s the best valentine you’ve ever given me!” She threw her arms around him and kissed him. “You’re my hero.”
Brad had offered to take Angela out to dinner, but she’d turned him down, telling him it was too hard to get a babysitter on Valentine’s Day. “Anyway, tonight you get the surprise I was planning.”
She’d taken the girls to the park that afternoon and worn them out on the play equipment. Then she’d fed them early and gotten them in their jammies. Now it was seven o’clock and they were tucked away in bed sound asleep, and it was showtime.
She set the tray with Brad’s and her dinner on the hope chest at the foot of the bed, then stepped back to survey the room. It looked good. There was the steak and baked potatoes with fresh asparagus, Brad’s fave. Asti Spumante, her fave, sat chilling in the ice bucket on her side of the bed, and she had the little plate of chocolate-covered strawberries and a can of whipped cream ready and waiting on her nightstand. The bedroom looked very sexy, if she did say so herself. She’d draped red and white silk scarves everywhere, put red light bulbs in the bedside lamps, and scattered rose petals all the way from the door to the bed. The flowers Brad had brought home for her sat in a vase on the dresser. The CD player was all set up and ready to go. She’d already tried her routine, so she knew the bedpost would hold her. She grabbed her rose spray perfume and gave the room one final spritz. There. She smiled and cinched her bathrobe belt more tightly around her costume. Time to get her audience.
She went downstairs to the living room, where Brad had been confined ever since he’d gotten home from work. “You can come upstairs now.”
“What are you up to?” he asked with a smile.
“Come see,” she said coyly, and took his hand and led him up the stairs. Oh, this was going to be good. She’d like to see Rachel the puttana try and compete with this. She threw open the bedroom door. “Dinner is ready. Are you?”
He looked around, his mouth hanging open. “Wow, Ang.”
She took his suit jacket and slipped him out of it, then draped the jacket over her slipper chair. The shirt and pants and shoes followed. She barely had to nudge him to get him on the bed. Then she played geisha and removed his socks. “Now, how about something to eat?”
“Sure,” he said, grinning.
She passed him his plate and he sat on the bed, feet stretched out in front of him and dug in. She watched him eat, feeling very pleased with herself. This had been a great idea. They hadn’t eaten a meal in bed since their honeymoon. She uncorked the champagne and poured them both glasses.
“This is great, baberino,” Brad said. “Much better than going out.”
“I thought so,” she said smugly and took a sip of champagne. Bene. She took another sip.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“Oh, yeah.” She retrieved her plate and hopped onto the bed next to him. And took another sip of champagne. “How’s your steak?”
“Just the way I like it,” he said. He nodded at her bathrobe. “What’ve you got on under there?”
She gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “You’ll see. Have some more champagne.” She freshened his glass. And, well, well, hers was almost empty. She drank the last of it and freshened her glass, too. Wooh!
“You know, we should put the girls to bed early more often,” Brad said.
“Yes, we should,” she agreed and had some more champagne. She took a bite of potato and closed her eyes, savoring the treat. Sour cream, butter—she was going to have an orgasm right now. She took another bite
and washed it down with champagne. Okay, one more bite of potato, then she should probably quit. Well, make that two. The skin was the best part. You couldn’t not eat the skin. Oh. Where’d the potato go? Inside of her, every little bit, and all those calories were now swimming to her tummy as fast as they could. Who cared? It was Valentine’s Day. Salute! She finished off the contents of her glass.
“Are you going to finish that steak?” Brad asked, pointing to the meat on her plate.
It wasn’t good to eat too much before a performance. She’d read that somewhere. She held out her plate. “No. You can have it. I’ll just have a little more champagne,” she decided and hauled the bottle out of the ice bucket. It sloshed a little going into her glass. Oops.
She posed seductively next to him, knees curled up, one arm draped over the bed pillows, and rubbed her lips with her glass.
“I’ll finish this later,” Brad decided, and set his plate on the floor. He took hers, too.
Now it was just the two of them, the champagne, and the bed. “Close your eyes,” she cooed as soon as he’d sat back up.
He smiled and closed them. She set down her glass and plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from the plate. “Okay, open your mouth.”
He obliged and she inserted the top half of the strawberry. He bit down and juices flowed over the corners of his mouth. “Whoa.”
He started to open his eyes. “Keep your eyes closed,” she instructed. Then she leaned over and licked the juice from the corners of his lips, making him moan. “More?”
“More,” he repeated.
She giggled and put in the rest of the strawberry, then repeated the licking process. “Stick out your tongue.” He did and she sprayed a dollop of whipped cream on it. Then, when his tongue was barely in his mouth, she kissed him, giving the whipped cream a stir. “That’s for starters,” she whispered when she was done. “I have a whole can.”
“Am I in heaven?” he asked.
Oh, this was fun! “Keep those eyes closed.” She chugged some more champagne, then slid off the bed, tilting to the side as she went. Oops, stay upright here. Her head was buzzing now. Maybe she shouldn’t have had that last glass. Oh, well. It was Valentine’s Day. La bella vita and all that.
She went to the CD player and started the music, then turned around to face her audience of one. “Okay, open your eyes.”
Ravel’s Bolero (which Kizzy had loaned her, assuring her that it would be perfect for this) began to serenade them—just the flute and a soft, pulsing rhythm. Angela untied the sash and opened her bathrobe, giving Brad his first glimpse of her Victoria’s Secret purchase. Why hadn’t she stuck to her diet better? She could have looked so much hotter. Never mind that new. Stay in the second.
Brad was obviously in the second. He was all eyes.
She let the robe slip halfway down her arms. Then she began the slow little dance step toward the bed that she’d practiced earlier. And all the while the drums thrummed. Bum! Bum, bum, bum, bum bum. Bum! Bum, bum, bum, bum, bum. Whoops. Watch those rose petals. They’re slippery.
Brad moved to come catch her. She held up an arm. “I’m okay.” My head feels like a balloon, but I’m okay. She let the bathrobe fall all the way off and snaked her way to the edge of the bed, her movements slow. The music was getting louder now. Two instruments danced together, repeating the melody. She picked up the champagne and poured herself some more. Then she planted one leg on the edge of the bed in her best porn star pose (did porn stars pose?) and quaffed the champagne. I see London, I see France. Where are Angela’s underpants? Hahahahaha.
Brad was really grinning now. Oh, this was good.
More instruments had joined the party and the drums were getting louder. Or was that the blood pumping in her head? She moved to climb onto the bed and fell forward on her nose. Ouch! That hadn’t happened when she practiced this. Brad helped her up, bringing their bodies close, and she pushed him away with a wicked grin, and backed up. Wait a minute. Let’s stop and look where we’re going. We could back right off the bed. Okay, there was the bedpost. Time to unleash your inner temptress. You have the power. No woman is going to be able to take your man from you.
The music was loud now and she was definitely in the second. The horns had joined the wind instruments and the drums were beating, beating, beating, pumping, pumping, pumping.
“Oh, baby.” Brad was practically panting.
Yes, yes, yes. She had him in her power. The music got wild. The cymbals crashed. She leaned away from the pole for her grand finale and … whoa, who was tipping the bed!
With a yelp she went over the edge.
“Ang!” Brad was beside her before she could say “bed spin.” “Baby, are you okay?”
“The room is spinning. Oh, Brad.”
“Here.” He hauled her onto the bed and laid her out. “There. Better?”
She closed her eyes. “I think so.” Well, actually no, but she didn’t want to ruin the mood.
“Good,” he murmured, and kissed her, sliding a hand up her thigh.
“I didn’t get to do my big finale,” she protested. “We haven’t gotten to the whipped cream.”
“Later,” he whispered. “Right now all I want is you.”
All I want is you. Music to her ears. She wrapped her arms around him. “Here I am,” she murmured. And belched. Oops. Not very sexy.
Brad never noticed.
Fourteen
Adam had planned a perfect night. First dinner, then they were going to the big Valentine’s bash at the Last Resort, where there would be dancing. Tonight’s cover charge included a Mardi Gras-style mask. Erin always wanted to go to Mardi Gras. This seemed like a good warm-up.
Adam had already gotten her a single red rose—very romantic—and the DVD of While You Were Sleeping, her and her mom’s favorite classic chick flick, and now they were dining in style at Two Turtledoves, the swankiest restaurant in Heart Lake.
And she was looking at the menu, trying not to have a guilt attack. Had Adam known how expensive this place was? She peered at him over the menu. “I don’t think we can even afford the appetizers.”
“Yes we can,” he assured her. “I budgeted for it. Order what you want.”
Here was a shocker. He almost had a heart attack over every wedding expense but he could take her to the fanciest restaurant in town for Valentine’s Day and not blink an eye.
Maybe that’s because it was his idea. Maybe it’s not just about the money. Maybe he likes being in control.
Erin frowned. Dan Rockwell was becoming way too frequent a visitor in her head.
Now, now, said her inner mother, Adam is trying to do something nice for you, so quit questioning his motives and appreciate it.
Dan Rockwell was the one who’d put that thought in her mind. Her inner mother should get after him. Erin looked again at the menu. She had never been faced with such expensive choices in her life. The guys she’d dated in the past took her to places where she only had to choose between burgers and nachos supreme.
Well, okay, Adam had said to order what she wanted. And she wanted lobster. She’d only had it once when her mom made it for her eighteenth birthday, but she’d never forgotten how wonderful it tasted.
“I think I’ll have the Australian lobster,” she said.
“Good choice,” said Adam. Had his face just lost color? It was hard to tell in the candlelight. “How about a first course?”
Oh, she couldn’t.
“Let’s split one,” he suggested. “Want the calamari?”
“Okay.”
Their waiter slipped silently to the table and Brad ordered: the calamari, her Australian lobster, and chicken risotto, the cheapest thing on the menu. Probably not what he wanted at all.
She knew it. He was in sticker shock. She braced for his answer when the waiter asked what they would like to drink. Water, of course.
But no, he actually ordered wine. Okay, maybe he had wanted the chicken risotto.
The waiter took th
e menus and slipped away and she let her gaze drift out the restaurant window. This side of the lake wasn’t as developed as the rest of it and firs, pines, and alders still hugged much of the shoreline. Farther down she could see house lights twinkling, reflected on the water’s surface. The lake was calm tonight, and looking out at it made her think of old movies and romance novels. This would be a great place to raise kids.
She turned and smiled at Adam. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’d love to live out here. Maybe Aunt Mellie would sell us the house. The commute’s not that bad. Working and partying in the city, chilling out at the lake—what a perfect life.”
“Live here? Babe, once I’m done with med school we can go anywhere.”
Erin blinked in surprise. “I thought you applied to intern at Virginia Mason.”
He shrugged. “That’s not the only place.”
“I know.” He’d also applied at Providence and Harborview.
“My dad is pulling some strings. Fingers crossed, babe. I could end up at New York Presbyterian.”
“New York?” she said faintly. “But that’s on the other side of the country. What about family and friends? You never told me you applied to intern in New York. I thought we’d be living in Seattle.”
“But think about the swanky parties you can plan in NYC,” he said. “Are you telling me you’d pick this place over New York? Except for the Last Resort and Brewsters’ they roll up the streets at nine.”
“We could live in Seattle, in your apartment.”
“Seattle can’t compare to New York. And here? You’ve got plans for your life. You don’t want to be a small-town girl.”
He was right of course. A big city was the perfect host for an event planner. “Good point,” she conceded.
Bikini Season Page 14
