by Tarr, Hope
* * *
Max’s good mood lasted until he got back to his rooftop suite and saw the phone’s message light blinking. There was a voice message from Pat and another from Harry, no big surprises there. Both said about the same thing, the wording close enough to make him wonder if his editor and agent weren’t practicing a little collaboration of their own.
Harry’s voice mail was slightly more detailed. “As I may have mentioned earlier, Rebecca St. Claire is in town for just the one night. As a gesture of good will, why not meet her for drinks or better yet, dinner? Flies and honey, Maxie, flies and honey. Her number is…”
Max caught the 202 area code but let the other seven digits slide by. There was only one woman he was interested in meeting, and he’d let her get away with her glass slipper without leaving behind so much as a business card or a cell phone number. Disgusted with himself for not trying harder, he punched the delete key and headed into the bathroom for a shower—a cold one.
Ten minutes later he stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked up to the vanity mirror. He ran the back of his hand over the five o’clock shadow on his cheek, debating whether to shave or let it go until morning. Other than shaving, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given his face more than a passing glance. Studying it now, he searched for anything that might have scared off his skittish Cinderella. Sure there were some lines on his forehead and creases at the corners of his eyes and a few grays in his beard, but she didn’t strike him as someone looking for a twentysomething boy toy. The way she’d lifted her eyes and met his without looking away, he’d gotten the distinct impression she liked what she was seeing.
He dressed in jeans, a collared shirt and a sports jacket, and then spent the next hour checking e-mail and channel-surfing—and negating the benefit of the ice-cold shower he’d taken by conjuring steamy images of peach-colored panties and red high-heeled shoes and slender legs that would look absolutely killer in black garters and silk stockings until the spacious suite might as well have been the close confines of a sauna.
Around eight he couldn’t take it any longer. Leaving his room, he took the hallway elevator down to the basement-level lounge, which he was coming to think of as the scene of the crime. Normally his overnights in New York ended with him sitting in his hotel’s lounge for hours, noshing on appetizers and sipping Scotch and writing amidst a backdrop buzz of noise. Entering the quiet, nearly empty bar, he felt a sense of letdown. A campy old hotel must not count as a New Year’s Eve hot spot. If he was honest with himself, he’d admit he set up the meeting with Pat for New Year’s Eve because he hadn’t wanted to spend the first-year anniversary of Elaina’s death home alone. To get through the night, he needed bodies around him, and it didn’t really matter that he’d be looking on from the sidelines rather than joining in. Crazy as it was, he almost wished he’d saved Harry’s message with Rebecca St. Claire’s phone number just so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. But that was desperation talking. It wasn’t the romance novelist with whom he was interested in ringing in the new year but his sexy shoe-shopping Cinderella.
The bartender recognized him from that afternoon and poured a generous measure of Macallan Scotch over a single ice cube without having to be told. Max took a sip of his drink and looked around. “When I checked in this morning, the desk clerk mentioned something about a piano in the lounge.”
The bartender nodded toward the back of the room. “We just got it in today.”
Max hesitated. The only keys he’d touched over the past year were on his computer keyboard. Like his flirting skills, he expected his piano-playing would be embarrassingly rusty. Still, a few bars of “Stormy Weather” might settle his mind, and it wasn’t like there was a big crowd to hiss and boo. If nothing else, playing would fill the empty silence.
“Mind if I play?”
The bartender shrugged. “Help yourself.”
Max pushed back his stool and got up. Scratch “Stormy Weather.” Thinking back to his midtown encounter, he decided he was more in a “New York State of Mind.”
* * *
All dressed up with nowhere to go, Becky stood in the hotel lobby, her black cashmere coat draped over one bare arm. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, she wished she could click her ruby heels three times and be, if not transported back home to D.C., then certainly somewhere other than alone in an almost-empty hotel lobby on New Year’s Eve.
Their lack of magical properties aside, the red satin slippers were hands-down hot, and the black and red crystal detailing made her feel a lot more like a cosmopolitan Cinderella than a jumper-wearing Dorothy. The shoes also went beautifully with the Valentino black tie-waist cocktail dress she’d brought from home “just in case.” She’d bought the dress when she’d still been seeing Elliot, and he’d been doing a lot of talking about all the great places he was going to take her once she moved out to L.A. with him. This was the first time she’d had it on her body since she’d tried it on in the Neiman Marcus fitting room. Fortunately it still fit—perfectly, as a matter of fact. The side zipper had rolled up without a hitch and the deep V neckline and banded Empire waist actually gave her the illusion of having boobs. Her hair had turned out pretty good, too. Instead of pinning the wild curls into her normal tight twist or bun, she’d let them fall loosely around her shoulders.
Too bad her hunky Prince Charming wasn’t here to see her. He might not recognize the bedraggled klutz who’d barreled into him—and yet, even then he’d somehow seen past her wrecked hair, mussed makeup and torn pantyhose and asked her out anyway. Mentally kicking herself yet again for turning him down, she wandered over to the concierge’s desk to look over the tourist pamphlets for some clue of where to go.
“Do you need dinner reservations?”
Becky snapped up her head from the brochure for Madame Tussaud’s she was pretending to read. “Excuse me?”
The dark-suited concierge looked at her expectantly, phone in hand. “How many are in your party?”
Becky froze. She opened her mouth to answer “Party of one,” but the words stuck in her throat. Somehow dining alone on New Year’s Eve didn’t measure up to the fresh start or dazzling opportunity she was looking for, not with a heart full of sinking hopes—and an evening bag full of condoms.
She shook her head, brain unfreezing—and racing toward meltdown. “I’m, uh…waiting for someone. She…I mean he should be along any time. Yep, any second now, he should be walking through that door…” Remembering her writer’s stagecraft, she played it big by peering out into the lobby entrance. “Darn, he’s late again. I think I’ll have a glass of wine downstairs while I er…wait…for him.” Smooth, Becky, really smooth—not!
He put the phone back in its cradle and nodded. “What does he look like?”
“Look like?” The echoed question came out somewhere between a squawk and a squeak.
He nodded. “I’ll flag him when he comes in and tell him to meet you in the lounge.”
Oh, shit. Just when she’d given up complaining about the sorry state of the service industry, she got an overachiever. “He’s uh…” A mental picture of her sexy stranger flashed into her brain, and she relaxed. “Well, he’s very good-looking. Tall—definitely over six feet—short blond hair, a high forehead but not too high. Oh, and he has the most beautiful blue eyes.”
The concierge stared at her, a smirk on his face. He was probably thinking she needed to go back upstairs and stick herself beneath a cold shower—and he was probably right. “I’ll send him down when he comes in, miss.”
“Great, thanks.”
She shoved the brochure back on the rack and dashed to the elevator. Taking it down to the basement level, she asked herself why she’d made such a big deal of being alone. It wasn’t like being single was some kind of social disease. Angelina wouldn’t think twice about going out solo. Just the opposite, the brainy British bombshell would totally groove on being the center of attention, especially if it was male. She’d sidle up to the bar
and order her signature dirty Bombay Sapphire martini while holding the eye of every man in the room. Maybe it was time Becky channeled some of her character’s chutzpah in real life.
Piano music greeted her as she stepped off the elevator. She’d been in the Serena a couple of times before but she didn’t remember there being live music. Looking around, she decided it was too bad there weren’t many live customers to enjoy it. A few lounge tables were occupied, but otherwise the place was deserted. Brad Pitt, George Clooney and Matthew McConaughey must all be making the New Year’s scene elsewhere along with the other million-and-a-half Manhattanites. So much for those dazzling new opportunities….
Determined to channel her inner Angelina, Becky strolled up to the bar, folded her coat over an empty stool, and slipped onto the seat, careful of her bruised bottom. Catching the bartender’s eye, she said, “You have a pianist, but I don’t see the piano.”
He looked up from the glass he was dunking in the double sink and nodded toward the back of the room. “Behind that metal screen.”
“Well, it’s a nice touch. Live music always adds something.” God, she was babbling like a lonely little old lady on a subway bench—so much for playing it Angelina cool.
He set the clean glass on the shelf and wiped his hands on a towel before turning to face her. “The guy playing is a guest in the hotel. Since it’s a slow night, I told him to go ahead and play if he felt like it.”
“Well, he’s very good. That’s ‘New York State of Mind,’ isn’t it?” She knew full well it was, but already the silence was getting on her last nerve.
He blew out a breath. “Yeah, I guess. What can I get you?”
“I’m not sure. What do you recommend?”
Shit, she’d just sat down and already she’d blown it. Angelina would never under any circumstances solicit a man’s opinion about a cocktail or anything else. Among her many stellar qualities, the Brit was a woman who knew her own mind—and owned her feminine power. She would have captured the bartender in the thrall of her sexy, slanted green-eyed gaze and ordered her signature Bombay Sapphire martini dirty—make that extra dirty.
The bartender rolled his eyes and shoved a drink menu at her, his reaction reminding her that in Manhattan an out-of-towner chatting up the waitstaff made the list of Seven Deadly Sins. “I can make anything you want, but these are our specialty drinks.”
“Thanks, I’ll take a look.” Face warm, she opened the menu and made a show of studying it.
She ended up ordering one of the house martinis, a raspberry Cosmo with a float of champagne dubbed the Flirtini. Champagne was the official beverage of New Year’s Eve and, like the red shoes on her feet, the cocktail’s name seemed symbolic of the sexier, bolder self she was resolving to bring out of the closet.
“New York State of Mind” segued into “Stormy Weather.” Sipping her drink, Becky considered making a request when the music ended midsong. She hadn’t realized how much company the unseen pianist was providing until he stopped. Feeling all alone again, she was about to call over the scowling bartender to place an appetizer order when a warm hand settled on her shoulder.
“Mind if I join you…Cinderella?”
Chapter 4
Three hours and several rounds of drinks later, Drake leaned in to the beautiful Brit and lifted a strand of long black hair from her neck. Covering the delicate shell of her ear with his mouth, he said, “Love, I’m mad for you. Come back to my room and let me make love to you. What do you say?”
For one of the few times in her thirty-odd years, Angelina hesitated. The Aussie bloke was definitely rough around the edges, not at all what she thought of as her type, but then again there was something about his deep blue eyes, strapping body and blunt speech that warmed her from the inside out. Unlike Falco, he didn’t mince words—or play games. Regardless, she needed him to complete her mission. But first she had to determine whether or not he was trustworthy.
Capturing his blue-eyed gaze, she slid her hand down his hard-muscled torso to the telltale bulge below his silver and turquoise belt buckle. Cupping him with an expert touch, she moistened her lips and tipped her face up to his until their lips all but brushed. “I’ll go back with you to your room, but mind I have two rules. No regrets—and no names.”
* * *
The sexy New England baritone sent Becky swiveling in her seat—and swimming in twin pools of deep blue eyes. Her sexy stranger, her Prince Charming from midtown, stood at the bar beside her. Becky couldn’t believe her eyes. She blinked, expecting him to disappear, a wishful daydream, a few seconds’ tricked-out fantasy. When he didn’t, she half wondered if the bartender had spiked her drink with something a lot stronger than alcohol. Two chance meetings in the same day in a city the size of New York couldn’t be a coincidence—could it?
Finding her voice, she asked, “Was that you playing?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty rusty.”
“I thought you sounded great, very professional. I was just about to make a request.” She sent him her best take on a sultry Angelina-like smile.
His gaze never left hers, the intensity of his stare doing funny, fluttery things to her stomach. “I’ll do anything you want,” he said and somehow she didn’t think he was talking about playing—at least not the piano. “What did you have in mind?”
A moment ago, Becky had had several songs in mind but the heat in his eyes had her forgetting every single one. Even if she had remembered, the look on his face assured her he wasn’t really referring to song titles. Surprised at his forwardness—until asking her out for coffee, he’d seemed a little shy on the street—she answered honestly, “I…I don’t remember.”
Rather than press her, he glanced over to the next stool. “May I?”
“Oh, God, yes…I mean, please.” She shifted over to make room for him.
“Thanks.” He set his drink on the bar and settled in beside her. “The coffee here isn’t much, so you’re going to have to let me buy you a cocktail instead.” He glanced at her half-finished martini. “What is it you’re drinking?”
Becky hesitated. “I’m having the, uh…Flirtini.” Geez, what a name for a drink. She felt her face warming and reminded herself that the Angelinas of the world never ever blushed.
“Flirtini, huh?” His smile widened. “I’ll take that over a Pink Bitch any day.”
She pulled back. “Excuse me?”
“The Pink Bitch. It’s another of their house drinks.”
“Oh, right. I think I saw it on the menu.” Lame, Becky, so lame.
He hailed the bartender and ordered them another round. Turning back to her, he held out his hand. “I’m Max, by the way.”
Becky glanced down, the fluttery feeling in her lower abdomen morphing into a steady thrumming. Sliding her hand into his broad-backed one, imagining all the wonderful things his long, thick fingers might do to her, she felt his warmth soaking through to her skin, sending her sex-starved brain spinning salacious fantasies like Rumpelstilt-skin spinning gold.
“And your name is…or should I stick to calling you Cinderella?”
Becky hesitated. Had the universe just sent her a golden, maybe even a dazzling opportunity to escape being boring Becky for one sexy night? For a second or two she actually considered answering “Angelina” but held back, thinking that would be definitely over the top. On the off chance he’d taken her advice and skimmed her book, he might start to wonder at the coincidence.
Speaking of coincidences, how weird was it that his name was Max? Here she’d been fretting all afternoon over the coauthorship deal with Adam Maxwell, and it turned out her midtown Prince Charming had a similar name.
“Cinderella it is, then.” His voice pulled her back to the present, reminding her she’d yet to answer.
Looking over his shoulder, Becky noticed the single roses in bud vases decorating the lounge tables. “I’m Rose.” Actually Rose was her mother’s name, which, while a little freaky, should make it easy to remember.
“Yes, well, after all that trouble, I figured I might as well take them out for a test drive. It is New Year’s Eve after all.”
“Yes, it is,” he answered, and a shadow passed over his face. “You must be on your way out, then?” She thought she detected disappointment lacing his tone but couldn’t trust herself to tell.
“I was but…my plans changed at the last minute.” That part was no less than the truth. She hadn’t planned on meeting him in the first place and certainly not again. Her planets must be aligning in a major way.
“You’re a guest at the hotel, too?”
Becky might not be Angelina Talbot, but even she wasn’t so out of touch she didn’t recognize the question as code for “your room or mine?” Remembering the condoms in her purse, she met his gaze head-on and asked herself, Can I really do this? followed by, Why the hell not? Unlike Angelina, she’d never had sex with a stranger, but there was a first time for everything. She’d never coauthored an action-adventure novel with a chauvinist pig, either, and it was shaping up to look as though she’d be doing that soon, too.
“You don’t have to answer that, by the way.”
His teasing tone set her once more at ease. She nodded, drawn to the warmth of his eyes and his smile. “I always stay here when I’m in town. The big chains just don’t do it for me.”
“Me, either. They’re too impersonal, too noisy and too damned big.”
Becky nodded. Not only was he tall, well-built and gorgeous but it seemed he was a kindred spirit when it came to travel, too. “I feel the same way. Whenever I walk into the lobby of the Hilton in midtown, I feel like I’m being sucked into some kind of sound vortex.”
He threw back his head and chuckled and Becky couldn’t help wondering if his closely cropped hair felt as silken as it looked. If the night stayed on its current sexy course, she just might be finding out sooner than later.
