by Nancy Warren
“Can he show a loudmouthed woman who may or may not be funny around Manhattan?”
“Yes. That’s what made me think of him. Giles is one of my clients, but I know he’s in town this weekend, because he had an extra ticket to the, um, ballet this evening and he asked me if I wanted to go with him. If he hasn’t found another taker, your princess gets to see Swan Lake.”
She bit her lip, sorely tempted. “Is he anything like Prince Charming?”
Peter hesitated for a second and then said, “He’s English.”
“Really?” She stared at him. “Could there possibly be such a simple answer to our problem? Tell me more about this Giles. Is he good-looking at all?”
“I’m not the best person to ask, but I guess. He looks sort of like that guy who used to be on Cheers. The one that Kirstie Alley had the hots for.”
“Roger Rees? He looks like Roger Rees?”
“Yeah. Kind of.”
“Cool.”
“And you think he’d do this?”
“I think he might.”
“The pay’s great for a struggling actor, but I’m not sure any client of yours is going to—”
“I think if you offered to make a nice donation to one of his charities, that would be great. Giles does very well for himself. He does not need the money.”
She sat back on her heels. “It’s nice of you, but I don’t know. I mean, he’s your client, and this is so not your problem.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m being selfish. What kind of a hot weekend am I going to have if my fantasy lover is working 24/7?”
In spite of her stress level, she laughed. “Right now, my fantasy is that I’d taken my dad’s advice and gone into accounting.”
“Not me,” he said, suddenly turning serious. “This weekend is…” He stared into her eyes and she saw a lot of things she didn’t even want to think about. “Kit, I—”
She shook her head violently. “No. I can’t talk about this now. Any more tension in this body and it’s going to blow up.”
“Hey,” he said, taking her arm in a warm grip. “You’ll pull this off. You always do.”
Her eyelids fluttered shut and she let herself take strength from his warm fingers circling her arm. Oh, what the hell. Giles probably wouldn’t be around anyway.
Without opening her eyes, or giving herself a chance for second thoughts, she shoved her phone at Peter. “Call him.”
8
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. That’s all it had been. Twenty-four hours since she’d believed Peter was out of her life forever.
If, at this time yesterday, she’d had to make a list of men she trusted, Peter Garson’s name most definitely would not have appeared.
And yet, here she was, barely a day later, trusting him to provide her with a weekend escort for one of the most important promotions of her career. Was she nuts?
Her heart was doing a lot of things in her chest that didn’t seem healthy. Bumping and knocking and something that felt like the jitterbug. If she were attached to an electrocardiograph right now, she’d bet they’d slap her in the ICU faster than you could say “You’re fired.”
Peter, walking at her side into the lobby of Hush, gripped her shoulder. “Not to worry. You can trust me.”
She glanced up at him. “I am trusting you. That is what’s worrying me.”
There wasn’t time for more.
“Giles,” Peter said, stepping forward with his hand out.
A tall, slender man rose from one of the comfy chairs in the lobby, meticulously folded The Economist and stepped forward.
He had dark hair that was perfectly groomed, with a hint of gray that only made his thin, intellectual face more attractive. His light gray eyes held an amused expression. She would have said she couldn’t pick out a Saville Row tailored suit, but somehow she knew she was looking at one.
“Peter,” the man said, extending a well-manicured hand.
The men shook hands briefly. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m always happy to help an old friend out of a sticky situation. Besides,” he said, looking around the lobby, “I’ve been curious about this place. Happy to have a chance to spend some time here.”
“This is Kit Prestcott.”
Kit held out her own hand and Giles shook it. “How do you do?” he said politely.
“We are so grateful to you for helping us out. Really.”
“Pleasure, my dear. Now, do tell me, what exactly am I to do?”
“I don’t want to be overheard,” she said. “Would you mind coming to my office?”
“Not at all.”
After first confirming that fantasy winner number two was happily ensconced in her room, and making sure Janice knew she was back on the premises, Kit escorted the two men to her office. Peter seemed more interested in the few personal belongings she had scattered around, and the citations and framed certificates and awards she had on the walls.
His friend Giles, she noted with relief, was as anxious to get down to discussing his role as she was.
“Before we get started, I need to explain the ground rules. Our winner can have anything she wants within reason, the law and what our hotel can provide. You are part of the prize package.” She smiled, amazed at how perfect this guy was. “But the only thing we ask of you is that you escort your winner wherever she wants to go and try to keep her happy. You’ll have a hotel room at your disposal, of course, and Hush will take care of all the expenses. Peter suggested you would rather have us make a donation to charity than give you the usual honorarium.”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely.”
“Fine. I’ll arrange it.”
She pulled out her red file of contest winners and found Irene’s fantasy.
Before she placed it on the desk for them both to read, she said, “You realize this is confidential. You need to understand her fantasy, but you can’t be too obvious about having read it.”
“Naturally,” Giles said, as though he shared women’s secrets all the time.
“Okay,” she said, and placed the single printed page on the desk.
What is my fantasy? No one’s asked me that for a long time. Isn’t that sad? I’m a woman. I might have a mouth bigger than the Holland Tunnel and an ass the size of Texas, but inside I’m still a young girl who wants to be swept off her feet by Prince Charming.
Or maybe I just want to be treated like a princess for a weekend. I want to eat the kind of food that makes you cry, it tastes so good, food that wipes away the taste of takeout that’s pretty much ingrown in my tongue. I want to sleep on soft sheets, and wake up to find that the guy I went to bed with is still there. Even better if he still remembers my name.
My sexual fantasy is so bland I can’t believe it’s the best I can do, but, you know, I’ve tried pretty much everything, and I’m tired of pampering male egos and twisting myself up like an overweight pretzel. I think my fantasy is to lay back, close my eyes, and have some beautiful man take the time to pleasure me.
Oh, yeah. That’s my fantasy.
Kit finished reading and suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable that she’d shared another woman’s intimacies with this upper-class stranger.
“I should explain,” she said, feeling embarrassed, “that you are under no obligation to, um…”
“That’s quite all right. I understand what you mean.” He glanced at the paper. “I thought her letter was funny and rather sweet. And, she sounds to me, rather lonely.”
“Yes. I think she might also be a bit overweight. I hope you won’t—”
“My dear. I promise you I will treat this woman like the princess she longs to be. As for the sexual—”
“No obligation. Really. The bedside tables are full of…fun toys for single people.”
“You will not believe the stuff they stock in the bedside drawers,” Peter interrupted. “She can lie back and get intimate with Mr. Rabbit.”
Giles’s black brows rose. “Ah. I had heard that Hush was a little out of the
ordinary.”
“We take pleasure seriously at this hotel. We try to make sure that everyone has a good time. Especially our fantasy winners.”
“Did Peter tell you I’ve got tickets for the ballet?”
“Yes, he did mention it. It sounds perfect for our guest.”
“I was able to get two more tickets. I’d love it if you and Peter would join us tonight.”
“That would be wonderful. I love the ballet.”
“But we’re going to Love Ya, Babe tonight,” Peter said, suddenly turning.
Kit had seen the appeal in Giles’s eyes. What kind of a cruel person would she be to leave this poor, elegant man alone with a woman who admitted she had a big mouth?
“I can give the tickets away, Peter. It’s not a problem. I’d love to see the ballet.”
“I thought the play was going to be bad enough,” Peter muttered, but she and Giles both pretended not to hear.
“Let’s meet for drinks in Erotique at six?” Kit said.
“Perfect.”
“In the meantime, I’ll go find Irene and give her the hotel tour.”
“But what about our afternoon in the spa?” Peter asked.
“Enjoy your treatments. It’s one of the most self-indulgent afternoons you’ll ever spend.”
“Without you? I couldn’t.”
“Maybe Giles would like to take my place?” she said, glancing from one to the other. “I’m booked for a massage and a pedicure.”
“Wonderful. I could rather do with a pedicure,” he said, smiling blandly at Peter, who did not look thrilled with his change in spa partners.
She ushered the two men out of the office, promised to introduce Giles to his fantasy winner later that afternoon, and headed back to the lobby.
Once she had Giles checked in, he said, with a small smile, “I’ll see you in the spa then, Peter,” and headed for the elevators.
“I don’t want to go to Swan Lake, and I don’t want a pedicure,” Peter said in a furious undertone.
“Now, that’s odd,” she said, pulling out her list of his supposed preferred activities and scanning it. She nodded and pointed to his own handwriting on Hush letterhead. “Yep, there it is. Afternoon at the spa. Right between picnic in Central Park and the romantic comedy on Broadway.” She smiled blandly at him. “At Hush, we aim to please.”
“You know damn well I only picked those things because I thought you’d like them.”
She stared at him for a moment. “If your fantasy is to make a fool of yourself, that’s not my problem. Enjoy your pedicure.”
“I never chose the ballet.”
She was suddenly sorry she’d been so cranky. “I know. And it was so sweet of you to find Giles for me. He’s perfect. But we can’t abandon him to his date. We’ll do the ballet and then have our dinner on the roof patio. Just the two of us.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “And afterward?”
She leaned up and kissed him lightly. “Anything the fantasy winner wants.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, having thrown on a skirt and blouse, combed her hair and freshened her makeup, she was knocking on the door of the Oscar suite.
It was opened by a woman of around thirty-five, with multistreaked red hair in a short, sassy style, a slinky red top that showed impressive cleavage and black jazz pants.
“Hi,” Kit said, holding out her hand. “I’m Kit Prestcott, the public relations manager at Hush. Welcome to the hotel.”
“Hey, Kit,” the woman said with a big smile. “Great to meet you.” Her smile was charming, and her face was pretty, if a little too heavily made up for Kit’s taste.
“I hope you have everything you need,” Kit said politely.
A husky laugh greeted her. “I can’t find Prince Charming under the bed. Other than that, I’m good. Come on in.”
She turned and Kit decided the woman had exaggerated about her ass. It wasn’t the size of Texas. More like Rhode Island.
“Based on your winning contest entry,” Kit said, “your escort organized tickets to Swan Lake tonight. The ballet.”
“No shit. I love ballet.” Her face lit up, and then fell. “But I don’t have anything to wear to a fancy schmancy ballet.”
She flung open the double doors of the wardrobe and Kit had to agree.
Knowing nothing but disaster could result if this woman showed up as the elegant Giles’s date in something too bright, too glittery and definitely too tight, she rashly decided that Piper would want this fantasy winner to have a new dress.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said. “Come on.”
“What is it?”
“First, I’m going to take you on a hotel tour. I think you’ll be impressed. Then we’re going to visit the hotel boutique and get you a dress for tonight.”
“Is that part of the prize? I don’t remember reading anything about clothes.”
“The prize is sort of based on you. It’s all about having the most pampered, sensually stimulating weekend of your life.”
She received a skeptically quirked eyebrow in reply.
“Come on,” she said, “I’ll show you.”
They toured the hotel and soon Irene was giggling. They passed a middle-aged couple in a shadowed corner almost in flagrante delicto. As they took the elevator up, a room service waiter entered carrying a tray containing a bottle of champagne, a fresh tube of passion fruit personal lubricant and a cellophane-wrapped package of batteries.
“You know,” Irene said, “Just looking at that stuff is making me horny.”
Kit smiled. “There’s a good stock of supplies in the bedside drawers in your room.”
“Honey, battery-operated fun I can get at home. This weekend, I’m hoping for a cock that actually has a man attached to it.”
Kit thought of Giles and this very frank woman together and felt the beginnings of a tension headache. “You know, your escort is strictly a host. There’s no sex implied.”
“Oh, sure. That was clear in the contest rules. That’s okay. I figure if my escort isn’t interested, there’s got to be some guy around here who is. If I can’t get laid in this hotel, then I might as well give up.” She sighed as they got to the roof. The flowers had never looked so good since May Ellison had taken over their care. The pool winked invitingly, and a young man and woman snoozed on deck chairs, holding hands. “Although I might have forgotten how.”
Kit looked over at the young couple. Newlyweds, she guessed, and thought about her own dry spell. “I know what you mean.”
By the time they’d toured the library, the ballroom, and Exhibit A, Irene was back to giggling.
“Is there anywhere in this hotel you don’t see people making out?”
“The lobby. Well, they do, of course, but we encourage them to visit our more private locations.”
For the last stop on their tour, she took her contest winner, as promised, to the lobby boutique. Irene headed straight for a reed-slim green sheath that would look great on Iman but on Irene was going to look like a badly stuffed sausage gone to mould.
Kit shook her head, calling on her own tact and the woman’s fantasy to guide her away from sartorial disaster. “That is not a princess dress.”
She took her new friend by the hand and led her to a rack of gauzy, fantasy gowns. “This,” she said, pulling out a pale pink Betsey Johnson with a fitted bodice and a bell skirt, “this is a princess dress.”
Naturally, her first attempt at a fashion makeover wasn’t an instant success. Irene snorted. “My fantasy is to be pampered like a princess, not look like Barbie does the Oscars.”
But she didn’t walk away. She reached past Kit and began flicking through the dresses. They were all fabulous. Part of the fantasy hung right there on the rack. Kit had never thought of herself as a fairy godmother, but there was something powerful about providing the clothes for a princess fantasy.
She watched, fascinated, as the cynical expression slowly melted from Irene’s countenance. The eyes went first,
from hard and bright to soft and dreamy. Then her mouth joined in, the I-laugh-at-life smirk smoothing into a wishful smile. Oh, that woman hadn’t lied. She wanted to be a fairy princess for one weekend more than she wanted a sold-out crowd at The Comedy Club.
Kit watched Irene, not the rack, so she knew the second she’d discovered the dress that made her heart sing. Kit looked at the dress and though it wasn’t pastel princess perfect, it wasn’t remotely like anything else in Irene’s wardrobe, either.
The dress was black, with a full skirt, made of tulle with a discreet scatter of rhinestones. “It’s gorgeous.”
When Irene glanced at the price tag, she sagged, but Kit, already used to the boutique’s prices, and aware of the markup, patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Try it on.”
A helpful young sales assistant found the dress in her size, found the perfect black, strappy shoes and even a swanky little clutch purse.
When Irene emerged from the change room, Kit thought she looked better than she’d imagined possible. It wasn’t simply the dress, it was the still dreamy expression. She seemed softer, sweeter and more approachable.
“What do you think?” Irene asked, spinning so the black skirt belled around her, sparkling in the light.
“You look like Cinderella’s sexy sister,” she said.
“Her aunt, maybe. Her older, fatter, slutty aunt.”
“Not in this dress,” Kit promised. “Older, more sophisticated aunt.”
“What did you have in mind for jewelry?” asked the sales clerk.
“I’ve got some big, chunky black beads.”
The young woman, after a brief glance at Kit, shook her head and ran to the costume jewelry counter, returning with a slim chain with crystals and matching earrings. Kit was going to really have to explain her expense account after this. But then, knowing Piper, if she were here she’d be talking Irene into one of the faux fur stoles that cost more than an entire herd of skinned animals.
“We’ll take all of it,” said Kit. “Put it on my account, will you?”
