by Lynn LaFleur
Our senses were bombarded from the moment we stepped into Whispers’ pavilion, an elegant throwback to the twenties and thirties in the best tradition of the finest clubs of the Art Deco era.
Abby loved that era. Men with shiny, slicked-back hair leading reed-thin women in diaphanous gowns around elaborate dance floors. She sighed again and continued reading.
Our maitre‘d escorted us to a small ballroom for an apéritif. A fifteen-piece orchestra provided dance music, but like the other couples in the room, we were too cowardly to rise to the tango.
“Get outta here!” Abby had studied the tango for years. To tango again, with someone who really knew the dance—well, that would be better than eating her way through a Snickers factory.
Whispers features private dining spas, hidden from prying eyes by magnificent tiered gardens. Our spa was an ornate tent, twice the size of my condo, and definitely worthy of the Sheik of Araby. At that point, I accepted that we’d somehow stumbled into a parallel universe and would find Rudolph Valentino making love to Agnes Ayers among the finest Arabian silk pillows.
Now there’s a true romantic, Abby thought.
Although the meal, the wine and the service are stellar, we quickly learned the true allure of Whispers came from the spa and its amenities. Privacy prohibits me from describing the details of our evening except to say the spa provided everything we needed to live our wildest fantasies.
“No way.” Abby’s tummy quivered. She switched on the little fan next to the cash register.
Now that I have you salivating, here’s the bad news. The food and beverage service is mostly the same at all spa levels. Your choice of spa determines the price. The lowest starts at four digits. Yes, you read that right—a two followed by a comma and three zeros. Prices go up from there. But as my lady pointed out, one night at Whispers could wipe out the need for shrinks, marriage counselors and divorce attorneys. A bargain at twice the price.
“Well, hallelujah to that!” Abby had spent a fortune trying to save Pierce from his demons. By the time she realized her ex loved only one lady—cocaine—she’d spent what little money she had left on attorney’s fees and court costs.
Until you’ve experienced Whispers, until you’ve left your inhibitions on the doorstep and steeped yourself in fantasy, you’ll never know what you’ve been missing. Like the mythical Ambrosia, not a day goes by that I don’t crave it.
Abby stopped reading for a moment and waved the magazine in front of her face. She’d need more than a tiny fan to cool her jets.
Lord Tennyson wrote, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” For this reviewer, ‘twas better to have spent my retirement fund at Whispers by the Sea than never to retire at all. Bon appetit!
“I should be so lucky.” Her imagination in high gear, Abby tossed the magazine aside and closed her eyes. She and Pierce hadn’t made love for months before they split, and she hadn’t been with another man since. She couldn’t read any more.
“You must be reading Charlie’s review of Whispers.”
The voice came from behind her. A deep, masculine voice with a trace of a Southern drawl as smooth and rich as her Aunt Rose’s sweet potato pie.
Abby whirled around, an apology tumbling from her lips. “I’m so sorry, I didn't hear you come…” She stopped mid-sentence. Oh…my…god! Her mouth fell open and her mind went blank. She could do nothing except stare at the man who filled the doorway, with a look of shock on his face that must have mirrored hers.
No way this was really happening, the left side of her brain told her, but it was as if a bolt of lightning had slashed through the showroom. Neither seemed able to speak or move.
Brett “The Bullet” Kincade stood in the doorway, the wind off the ocean battering his back and tousling his rather longish blond hair. The same Brett Kincade who rewrote the record books and led the Buffalo Bills to four consecutive championships. A six-foot-five, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound southpaw who could launch a rocket of a Hail Mary, or scramble for the down on fourth and three. Brett Kincade, who left the NFL at the top of his game to join the family business. Brett Kincade, Venture Capitalist. That Brett Kincade!
Willing herself to breathe, Abby found her voice and thrust out her hand. “Abby Horton. Welcome to Love In Bloom, Mr. Kincade. I’m a huge fan.”
“You’re very kind, Ms. Horton.” She saw a flush rise from his neck all the way to his eyes. Charming and rare in a man, particularly one who likely hadn’t known the blush of humility since he’d completed his first pass. “I’m afraid I’m more at home behind a desk these days than tossing a ball. And please, call me Brett. My daddy’s Mister Kincade.”
“Then I’m Abby.”
He held her hand now in both of his. Strong hands, with long slender fingers. Soft hands, sure in what they touched and held. Heat radiated through her. Hands capable of giving a woman enormous pleasure.
“I know this sounds cliché as the devil, Abby, but haven’t we met before?”
She grinned. “I think I would have remembered, considering I drove in snow up to my bumpers to watch you play at home.” She held up her hand with four fingers splayed. “Four times at home, and twice at the Meadowlands when you played the Jets.”
Brett’s eyes sparkled. “You came to see me play six times and we never met? Impossible.”
“I doubt my mother would have recognized me under a pile of blankets and a ski mask. But I did cheer you on from the third deck.”
“Well, I can assure you, Abby Horton, had I known you were there, I would have brought you down to the sidelines and kept you warm myself.”
Would lightning sizzle as much? Get a grip, Abby! Don't be taken in by all that boyish charm and Rhett Butler manners. You won’t see any more of him now than you did freezing your patootie on game days.
“That would have been lovely, Brett, but…” Footsteps striking on the flagstone hallway separating the design studio from the showroom interrupted them.
“Are you just going to stand there, Abby?” Judy Crawford, the head designer and a twenty-year veteran of Love In Bloom, sidled up beside her. “Or are you going to ask Brett what we can do for him?” She leaned against the counter and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you can’t get decent help these days.”
“Well…actually, I…”
Brett turned back to Abby. “You’re new to Seaside, or to Love In Bloom?”
“New to both, and she claims temporary,” Judy answered. “Brett, meet Rose’s niece and the new, albeit reluctant, manager of Love In Bloom, Abigail Granger Horton. She’s the Lily Rose always talks about.” She turned to Abby. “Presumably, Brett Kincade needs no introduction.”
Brett reclaimed Abby’s hand. His eyes took a long leisurely stroll from the tip of her head to her booted toes. Goosebumps rose on Abby’s arms and followed along the path he traveled. “Would that be Mrs. Horton? I don’t see a ring.”
Abby stiffened. She liked to flirt, but she didn’t like people prying into the private and painful parts of her life. She pulled her hand away. “If you’re here to look at the Gala flowers,” she said, “I’m afraid the shipment won’t arrive until first thing Friday morning.”
Judy took a chocolate from the candy dish at the end of the counter. “I’m guessing Brett’s here to pick up Lauren’s flowers.” She peeled the chocolate and popped it in her mouth. “Good thing I made up the arrangement before I left for lunch. I had a feeling I’d be seeing you today.”
Abby saw Brett’s gaze stayed trained on her. “You’re good, Judy. Always one step ahead of me.”
“That’s because you’re so easy to read. Miracle you ever completed a pass.” Judy raised an eyebrow. “At least on the football field.”
“Come on, Jude, you’re going to give Abby the wrong impression.”
“Yeah right, like that could happen.” She stepped back from the counter. “What about the roses for Jordan and the other gals?”
“Deliver those to the office on Frida
y.” He finally dragged his gaze from Abby. “I’m taking Mom’s as a preemptive strike. She’s home sipping Mimosas and expanding her list of Sonny-Do’s for the Gala. Dad was smart. He called a bunch of the guys and took off for Hilton Head this morning. Figured if I brought Mom her Valentine flowers today, I’d distract her.”
“Distract the chairwoman of only the biggest fundraising event ever?” Judy tapped the counter with her finger to make a point. “Abby, you don’t know this, but Love In Bloom’s been doing the Cardiac Unit’s fundraiser for the last fifteen years. We have never had an order for flowers and table decorations even half the size of this year’s. Your mom’s done a fantastic job, Brett. Whatever Lauren wants, do it or you’ll be answering to me, Mr. Quarterback!”
“Yes ma’am!”
Judy put her arm around Abby’s shoulder. “I'll get the flowers. You ask Brett how he wants to handle them.”
“Handle them?”
Judy rolled her eyes again. “Pay for them. We have a purchase order from the Foundation for the Gala flowers, but these are personal expenses.” Judy turned and headed back to the workroom. “We can put them on his account unless he’d rather pay for them now.”
Abby ran a business office in Manhattan, but with Brett Kincade standing over her, she couldn’t string two nouns and a verb together. “Right. I…I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Hey, no big deal.” Brett reached into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. “Put all of them on this.” He handed her a credit card, then picked up the magazine with the page Abby had left open.
“Lily’s such a pretty name.”
Abby’s head shot up.
“Would you prefer I call you that?”
“No, I would prefer you do not.” She knew she’d answered too quickly, in a tone too sharp. Love In Bloom had been owned and operated for five generations by Granger women with names like Iris and Daisy, Dahlia and Amaryllis. Despite the silly names they’d chosen for themselves, they’d had both the brains and the stones to succeed in business at a time they were expected to stay at home and birth babies. She admired them, but she didn’t want to be one of them. She was Abby, The Playwright, not Lily, The Florist. She wanted to make her mark in the theatre, not in a flower shop or managing someone else’s business.
“I didn’t mean to touch a sore spot.”
“It’s not a sore spot, it’s that…well…I’m just not Lily. Aunt Rose will never understand that.”
The warmth in Brett’s smile nearly melted her. “Hey, I understand where you’re coming from. Everyone thought The Bullet was such a cool nickname. Used to aggravate the hell out of me.”
“Really? I thought most jocks…”
His smile suddenly lost its warmth. “I’m not ‘most jocks’, Abby. I left that life on the field.”
“I’m sorry, I…” Her voice trailed off into a hanging silence.
Brett broke that silence. “Your aunt always attends the Gala as one of our special guests. Will you come instead?”
Hardly. She planned to spend Saturday night packing for her return trip to New York first thing Monday morning. “My aunt must have taken her invitation with her.”
“That’s easy to fix.” Before she could say no, Brett reached inside his jacket pocket and took out his cell phone. He pressed a button and moments later, frowned. “Going to voice mail.” He looked away. “Jordan, it’s Brett. Please messenger over one of the VIP invitations to Love In Bloom ASAP. For…” He looked at Abby and winked. “Ms. Abby Horton. Thanks. I’ll see you around three.” He pocketed the phone. “You’re all set.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“Why? You don’t dance? Don’t eat? Don’t like fine wine?”
“Of course I eat and dance and love fine wine.”
“Then it’s settled. Reception at six. Dinner at seven, dancing ‘til midnight.”
“Really, I…”
“Shh.” He pressed a forefinger to his lips, wonderfully soft-looking lips. Succulent lips. She was doomed. “When I say it’s settled, it’s settled.”
Abby knew when to stop arguing. Instead she began processing the charge. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Brett leaf through the Underground Guide and smooth the page that crumpled when she tossed the magazine aside.
“Have you been to Whispers?” He turned the book toward her. “Seaside’s naughtiest little secret.”
She looked up. “The flowers for your mother and Jordan Ito are $150.00 each. The other nine arrangements, $75.00 apiece.”
He brushed the expense aside.
Abby handed him the credit card slip. He scribbled his name and pocketed the plastic, then lazily rested his forearms on the counter. Leaning forward, he stood nose to nose with her.
With his face so near, she saw a hint of blond shadow forming on his cheeks. Pierce’s shadow had been coarse. Brett’s looked soft. She fought the urge to run the back of her hand along the side of his face to discover the answer for herself.
He smiled, and in that smile, she sensed mischief and lust. Heat rushed from the top of her head right down to her toes. “Aren’t you even a little curious about Whispers? I was the first time I heard about it.”
Curious? She’d been devouring the article when he walked in and they both knew it.
After an uncomfortable moment she said, “I am curious to know what adult sensual dining is. Does that mean the steaks are served with a side order of lap dance?”
To her surprise, Brett threw back his head and laughed. “Great observation, but the answer’s no.”
“Then what is it?”
He looked at her long and hard. Was he measuring how far he might take this? “One of the favorite pastimes of the good folks of Seaside is speculating on what goes on at Whispers. Especially after a holiday like Valentine’s.”
“I presume it’s not a place to take Mom for Easter Brunch.”
“Let’s just say what goes on at Whispers, stays at Whispers.” His fingertips slid over hers. “Call them fantasies, call them desires. Can you tell me you’ve never wished one of your fantasies might come true? Would you turn down the chance to live one of them?”
Abby wasn’t sure she could breathe now, or ever again. Did he hear her heart thundering against her rib cage? Did he know how many unfulfilled desires and fantasies she had? And to actually live one. Oh…my…god!
He reached across the counter and cradled her cheek in his palm while he gently ran his thumb across her lips. “Come to Whispers with me tonight, Abby Horton, and find out for yourself.”
Chapter Three
Abby’s eyes flew open wide. Holy smokes, the man worked fast! How easy to close her eyes and enjoy the touch of that wonderful hand, breathe in the hint of the aftershave still clinging to his palm. And how foolish. Brett Kincade may have left the game, but he hadn’t forgotten the moves. Talk about a quarterback sneak!
Abby distanced herself with a step backward. “I couldn’t possibly.” Not unless I took a dozen cold showers first. “This is the busiest week in the floral trade. I wouldn’t dream of abandoning my crew.”
His blue eyes darkened to sapphire. “You still have to eat.”
She’d seen blue eyes turn that color before. He wasn’t thinking about food.
“True, but just not at Whispers.” Abby busied herself straightening up a pile of scratch pads. “We’ll all be working late, so I’ll order in for everyone.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Thanks for asking. It’s not every day a customer spends—” She looked at his charge slip. “Spends almost a thousand dollars and then offers to buy dinner too.”
“It’s not every day I meet the most enchanting woman, with silky skin crying out to me to touch and a mouth I’m dying to kiss.”
Oh…my…god! If she lowered her lids even a millimeter, she knew he’d kiss her. Worse, she knew she’d love it.
Abby took another step backward, and hoped he didn’t hear her heart pleading with her to say yes. Somehow, she found her voice. �
�You’ll recall, Mister Kincade, the reviewer said Whispers wasn’t the place to take a first date.”
“And you’ll recall, Miz Horton, Charlie also said it wasn’t unless your date’s adventurous and uninhibited.” He reached across the counter and unsnapped the clip holding her hair in a loosely thrown-together topknot. Auburn curls fell in waves almost to her shoulders. “I’d bet my Porsche, Miz Horton, there’s an adventurous women inside you dying to be set free.” He lowered his voice and leisurely drew his finger along her cheek and jaw. “I think I know the man for the job.”
Abby’s mouth dropped open. How did she respond to that?
“Hey, Brett, come get these,” Judy shouted from the hallway. “I’m afraid I’m going to drop them.”
Brett’s smile wavered a bit as he came round the counter and met Judy halfway. She carried a cardboard crate almost as big as she was tall, with a crystal vase and two dozen perfectly matched long-stemmed roses.
“They’re stunning. Great job, as always.” Brett tucked the crate in the crook of his arm. “Mom’s going to love them.” He looked over the top of the roses and latched onto Abby’s gaze. “My offer still stands, Miz Horton. Think about it.”
A few minutes later, Judy walked back inside the shop. She’d helped Brett buckle the crate into the passenger seat of his Carrera. “I’m really sorry, Abby, if I interrupted something.”
Abby looked up from burying the Underground Guide beneath two other magazines. “Only a full court press, even if it is the wrong sport.”
* * * * *
A little before six, with a note pad and pencil in hand, Abby headed for the workroom where what looked like acres of red and white flowers lay piled high atop four worktables. The cooler held dozens of arrangements ready for delivery starting tomorrow morning. By midnight tomorrow, the tables would be cleared and ready for the Gala flowers when they arrived.
