Not getting any younger.
Cleo loved to tease him about his looks. He knew he wasn’t bad, but she talked about him as if Hollywood would’ve been a reasonable alternative to Silicon Valley. As he buttoned his shirt, he struck poses in the mirror, just to prove to himself she was full of crazy.
He caught himself staring too long and slapped himself. He was the one full of crazy. Jesus.
“How was the spa?” he asked as he walked out. Very cool and casual. Not crazy at all.
Slumping against the wall, she sighed. “Fantastic. I felt so relaxed when it was over.”
“But not anymore?”
“It always wears off. I’d have to—” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind. How are you feeling, by the way?”
He noticed her face had turned as pink as her dress. “You’d have to what?”
“I’d need more than a professional massage. You know what I’m saying?” She offered an exaggerated wink, but he could tell her mirth was forced.
This new weirdness between them was all his fault. “Sorry about last night,” he said. “For everything. For fondling you, for drinking too much, for anything else I did that I don’t remember.”
“You snore like a congested elephant seal.”
Smiling, he gathered his wallet and phone. “Teresa said you ate breakfast with her, another thing I’m sorry about. Are you hungry for lunch?”
She hesitated. “Not really. It was quite a buffet.”
“That’s good. I’m glad you finally got to eat.” He went to the door. “The dinner’s at six thirty. Then the auction. Should we meet here?”
“Sure. Here’s good,” she said. “I have another dress I’m going to wear.”
“Another one?” In all the years he’d known her, he’d never once seen her in a dress. Now he was going to see her in two different ones, all in one day. “You’d do that for me?”
“I decided not to embarrass you anymore. For both of our sakes. Since I already won the bet, right?”
“Right.” He couldn’t bring himself to leave. “Look, Teresa noticed we’ve been alone a lot. Are you sure you won’t join me?”
“You really are scared of that tiny little woman, aren’t you?”
“Terrified.”
She smiled. “Well, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? All right, I’ll hang out with you. To help you out.”
As she walked past him into the hallway, he caught a hint of perfume. Not just shampoo. Perfume.
And he liked it. A lot.
“That’s what friends are for,” he said.
♢ ♡ ♤
Watching Sly eat his farm-to-table lunch didn’t help Cleo maintain the state of relaxation she’d achieved at the spa. How many meals had she watched him shovel in over the years? Why had this one suddenly made her think about what else he could be doing with those lips, that tongue, and those long, lean fingers?
The erotic turn to her thoughts depressed her. Sly was a friend. Perhaps her best friend, one she couldn’t afford to lose. Any lines they were stupid enough to cross would lead them into momentary pleasure and nowhere else.
“Want to look at the silent auction stuff with me?” he asked as they walked out of the restaurant.
“OK,” she said. “Let’s see what the butt lifts are going for.”
“Doing some early Christmas shopping?”
“Totally. You’re impossible to shop for.” She slapped him on the ass.
Which was a mistake. Now her palm was all tingly as it remembered the feel of his muscled cheek while they walked along the deck to the conference rooms. The ocean crashed against the rocks below them, gray and white water sending mist up in the cypress trees around the hotel.
It was one of the most romantic places she’d ever seen. Maybe that was the problem. She was too sensitive to her environment. It muddled the obvious: Sylvester Minguez was a workaholic who thought he was a slacker if he took a few hours to read a book for fun, whereas she lived life at half the pace he did, composing music that made her pennies, giving lessons to pay the rent, and intended to keep doing it. His parents were wealthy, hardworking accountants with a thriving business. Hers were clinical therapists who had retired to Oregon to grow organic vegetables. She and Sly could be friends who saw each other twice a month, but more than that?
Impossible.
They walked together into the room for the silent auction, which had panoramic windows of the sea and a harpist playing in the corner. The gentle notes added a heavenly quality to the foggy view. A man in a black shirt and pants handed her a glass of champagne, and another offered tiny plates of grapes.
“From our own vines,” he said.
She smiled and followed Sly to the far end of the longest table, near a grand piano that had a giant red satin bow on top, like a TV commercial for a luxury car during the holidays. But instead of imagining the beautiful wife running outside in the snow, crying with joy next to her beaming, proud husband, she imagined how nice the grand would look next to her couch. Well, she’d have to remove the couch to make room for it. But if she had that piano, she’d always be sitting at it anyway. No couch needed.
She’d probably have to take out the dining table too. And maybe a wall.
“That must be a nice piano,” Sly said. “You’re drooling.”
“That’s because I’m with you, sweetie,” she said absently. Oh, it had been a long time since she played a decent piano. She’d bought the best one she could afford, but… well, that wasn’t much. It had good tone but wasn’t the kind you’d want to roll around on top of in the nude.
Like that one.
“Seriously, Cleo, you’re flushed,” Sly said. “Do you need a few minutes alone?”
She shook her head to break the spell. “Let’s find the butt lifts.”
He picked up a brochure on the table. “How about a weekend in Vegas?”
“That’s practical. Because when you have too much money, you need to find new homes for some of it.” She sipped her drink, raising her eyebrows in appreciation. Not the cheap stuff she was used to. “This is good. Didn’t you want any?”
“Staying sober today. Thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” She took another mouthful and searched the table for something Sly could waste his money on. A poster advertising a trip to the Sierra Nevada for “your adventurous canine companion” caught her eye. An all-expense-paid vacation for your dog. Bath upon return included.
Sly caught her arm. “That’s Poppy over there. Mind if I…?”
“Go ahead. I’m going to call the one eight hundred number for this place near Yosemite and see if they’ll take humans.”
Flashing her his trademarked grin, he left her to shake the hand of the gray-haired woman surrounded by a cluster of men in T-shirts and jeans. Cleo had seen pictures of Poppy Lee, fondly nicknamed the “Silver Helmet” because of her hair. She watched Sly join the group, offer Poppy his hand, and draw her away from the other men with speedy grace.
He really had that rare charm that made life look easy. A mere mortal like herself would’ve felt uncomfortable barging in like that. Not Sly. He got what he wanted, and people thanked him for letting them give it to him.
She set her empty glass down and applied herself to reading the other auction items. Some of them were up into the thousands, and she was tempted to put down Sly’s name. Although he was generous with her, he could be cheap, always looking for a bargain, and not likely to treat himself to any luxuries, even small ones. The trip to the Patagonian Andes looked pretty good. She was just picking up the pen when he tapped her on the shoulder.
“I hope that’s not for me.”
“You can bring one of those solar panel chargers and your laptop,” she said. “Work on the trail.”
“You make it sound like I don’t know how to take a vacation.”
“You don’t.”
He put his arm around her and led her away from Poppy, who had returned to the cluster of jeans and T-shirts. “We c
an go whenever you’re ready. I’ve set the stage for tonight.”
“Stage for what?”
“Talking to Poppy about Mark’s start-up.”
“Didn’t you do that just now?”
“You don’t rush these things.” His hand slid down her arm and squeezed her elbow.
Her body was rushing to divert blood to her erogenous zones. The dress covered her upper arms, but now he was touching bare skin, and she was having trouble concentrating on the poster advertising dog sledding in Vail.
It wasn’t her imagination. He was touching her differently. His fingers lingered, made tiny circles on her skin, explored neighborhoods they’d never visited before.
“You know,” she said, “I think I’d like to walk a little more. Get some fresh air. Should I meet you at—”
“I’ll join you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to set more stages or whatever you do for—”
“Don’t want to come on too strong,” he said. “I know there’s a lavender farm in Carmel Valley. I’d love to see that. We could drive there. Interested?”
Was she? Her rapid pulse suggested that something was interesting her. “It’s probably too late in the year to see much. And I don’t feel like getting in the car.”
“So we’ll walk.” His hand moved down to her hand and clasped it.
Walking. Not as easy as it sounded. Her attention was so distracted by the touch that she tripped over the threshold on the way out the door.
She pulled her hand away and pretended to adjust her ponytail.
They could walk, but just for a little while. And then she was going to have a headache.
It was almost true.
8
Sly drank his third mineral water in the bar, watching the lobby for Cleo. They’d only walked for a little while that afternoon before she’d come down with a headache. They’d returned to the room, but when she made it clear there was nothing he could do for her, he’d quickly dressed for dinner and left her there with a pillow over her eyes.
Maybe she did have a headache. But he knew he’d sent a few mixed signals, testing her out, and her running away with a headache was one of the results.
He was done mixing any signals with Cleo. Weeks of no work had messed up his head. He got twitchy if he wasn’t conquering something—climbing a mountain, closing a sale, seducing a woman. He had the sinking feeling he’d fixed his sights on Cleo out of pure leisure intolerance.
Tonight he’d do what he could to interest Poppy Lee in Mark’s company, and then he’d do some networking himself. The sooner he got back into the workforce, the better.
“Evening, Sylvester.”
He spun around on his seat to see Teresa standing behind him with a silver vase of sunflowers in her arms. “Hi.”
“Help me out? They screwed up the arrangements, and I’m trying to fix them before everyone gets into the room.”
He hesitated.
“Come on. I can see you’ve finished your drink. I just need help carrying the last few vases.” She thrust the sunflowers at him and turned. “Follow me.”
Sly had never liked wishy-washy women. Being a man prone to domineering behavior himself, he liked being with someone who could hold her own. Teresa, however, had a pathological need to control everything at all times, even a charity auction at which she was the guest.
“Come on, come on,” Teresa said. “People are arriving.”
He looked around one last time for Cleo before following Teresa through the lobby to the banquet hall, figuring that carrying flowers was better than brooding at the bar.
Just as he passed the sitting area, he noticed a woman standing there with her back to him. Her snug emerald-green dress showed off an ass that could stop traffic. It had certainly stopped him.
And then his peripheral vision registered the color, length, and texture of her blond hair, and his heart began to pound harder.
When Cleo turned, he was holding the vase so tightly he was glad it wasn’t glass because he might’ve shattered it. “Hi.” He cleared his throat. “I’m helping out with the flowers.”
She smiled. “I can see that.” The dress was modest, with long sleeves and simple lines, but it clung to parts of her he’d never known she had. “Like my work clothes?”
He imagined the work she could do in it. “Excuse me?”
“You know, when I play at events.”
“Right.” Slowly, the gears in his brain began to turn again. “How’s your headache?”
“Better, thanks. But seriously, is the dress all right? I didn’t know if it would be too cheesy. It’s good for weddings and anniversaries, but at those I’m just the chick playing the piano, not a mogul’s hot date.” She waved her hand up and down in his general direction.
“It’s very all right.”
Smile faltering, she reached for the flowers. “Can I help?”
He hugged the vase against his chest, suddenly needing to squeeze something. “I’ve got it. Teresa drafted me. You might want to hide before she catches you too.”
“It’s not me she wants to catch.”
With a grim nod, he gestured to the banquet hall, and the two of them made their way through the growing crowd. Teresa was at the far end of the room near the stage, placing another vase of sunflowers on a round table. Immediately, as if she’d been watching the door, which she probably had, she waved him over.
Sly paused.
“I’ll take them,” Cleo said. “You can find us a table.”
“Are you sure? That would be above and beyond the call of duty.”
“It’s what a jealous girlfriend would do.”
Their eyes met. He handed her the vase. “Thanks.”
Because it’s what an admiring boyfriend would do, he watched her walk across the room, her generous hips swaying, her hair shimmering under the chandeliers, then back to her hips…
Teresa seemed to be staring past Cleo at him, watching him watch Cleo. He couldn’t read her expression, but it wasn’t happy.
He tore his gaze away and found a table in the middle near the side doors. Picking up an auction booklet as he sat, he returned his attention to Cleo, who was already walking back to him. For a woman who loved men’s pajamas, she certainly looked comfortable in a dress. The soft, clingy fabric draped around her curves like the toga of a Greek goddess.
“You’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?” she asked him as she sat down next to him. “I think she got the idea. She told me I was a lucky woman.”
Forcing a smile, he put an arm around the back of her chair and lowered his mouth to her ear. Her perfume struck him again. “I’m the lucky one.”
She didn’t move, didn’t say anything. Her hair, loose and glossy around her shoulders, was brushing his cheek.
I want her.
He jerked away and reached for a glass of ice water. His palms were sweating.
“There’s Poppy,” Cleo said.
Keep your eye on the prize, Minguez. He got to his feet and waved to Poppy, then held out his hand, palm up, to invite her to share their empty table. If he could talk to Poppy all evening, he might stop trying to check out his good friend’s body. Or taste it.
Thank God, she was coming over. Except instead of taking the seat next to him, she took the one next to Cleo. Her husband, a quiet man whose name he couldn’t remember, sat on the other side.
Sly stood for a moment. “Great to see you again.” He introduced Cleo, the three of them shook hands, took their seats, and then Poppy got her husband’s attention. He had buried his face in the auction booklet.
“Bob,” Poppy said. “This is Sylly.”
“Totally agree,” Bob said, throwing down the booklet. “We could just write a check directly instead of going through all this hassle.”
“Sylly’s an old nickname.” Sly was able to smile at the misunderstanding, although he didn’t enjoy it as much as he used to. “Short for Sylvester. People also call me Sly.” Out of the corner of
his eye, he saw Cleo smiling around her wineglass.
“Sorry,” Bob said. “This is why I try to let Poppy do all the talking.”
Poppy kissed him on the cheek. “Bob hates these things. He’s sweet to put up with so many of them.”
“It’s not the charity. It’s the crowd.” Bob’s gaze darted uneasily around the table. “I’ll shut up now. I don’t know why she doesn’t leave me at home where I can’t cause any trouble.”
Poppy kissed him again. “You need to get out every once in a while, pumpkin. Besides, the food here should be fantastic.”
“The food everywhere is fantastic these days,” Bob said. “And I’m not picky.”
Lips pressed together, Poppy gave Sly and Cleo a discreet eye roll.
“I’ve never been to one of these,” Cleo said. “At least not as a guest.”
Poppy held up her glass in a toast. “I was a waitress all through graduate school. Hardest work I’ve ever done.”
“Oh, I’m sure it was,” Cleo said. “I was lucky enough to just be the pianist.”
“A pianist,” Poppy said. “How wonderful.”
Sly put his hand on hers. “Cleo’s very talented.”
“You know,” Cleo said, withdrawing her hand, “I bet the two of you have a lot to talk about. How about we switch places, Sly?”
“No, no. Don’t do that,” Poppy said. “Then you’ll end up with nobody to talk to.”
“Maybe that’s the idea,” Bob said, lifting the booklet again. “We’re not all extroverts like you, dear.”
“And few are as reclusive as you, honey,” Poppy said.
This comment gave Sly an opening, and he wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. “Have you ever met Mark Johnson, Poppy?”
She threw her head back and laughed. The famous silver hair barely changed shape, even with the shift in gravity. “Speaking of recluses, you mean?”
Sly grinned. “Exactly.”
“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Poppy said. “You’re an old friend of his, aren’t you?”
This Changes Everything Page 6
