Outside Phelps stopped me before I could hail a cab. "The Artist sent us his car."
Following the direction of his inclined head, I saw a beautiful black Lincoln Town Car stopped in front of my building. My morning improved dramatically.
"You ready?" I asked.
He waggled his brows. "For what?"
I grinned and climbed into the back seat, settling in to soft gray leather. "For Bradford's."
"Never been."
He shrugged and shut the door behind us. As the driver pulled into traffic, I stared at him with unabashed shock.
"You've never been to Bradford's?" I watched him shake his head as if it were no big deal. No big deal. This was Bradford's. Mecca to shopaholics and socialites alike. This was Saks for the serious label hound. How could a man who sported Armani on a daily basis never have been to Bradford's? "Where do you buy your clothes?"
"I don't." Again he shrugged, like he couldn't fathom what I thought the big deal was. "I get to keep the samples from shoots and shows."
That explained the couture wardrobe.
"What do you do with all the money you make? Clearly you don't spend it on housing or clothing."
"I'm saving."
"For something special?"
He scratched thoughtfully at his jaw before answering. "For—"
My purse wiggled off my lap, sending Dyllie and all my belongings flying across the floor.
"—um, is that a dog in your purse or are you just happy to see me."
"Come here, Dyllie bean," I cooed, scooping her off the floor with one hand while trying to corral the contents back into my purse with the other. "Don't let the mean man make fun of you."
Before I could argue, he was half kneeling on the floor, gathering my scattered things and setting them back in my purse.
"I think we need to make a stop first," I announced.
The whole day would go smoother if we got Dyllie's needs out of the way first. I had done my research last night and found the best pet store in the city.
"To Puppy Love," I instructed the driver. "We need a leash."
Phelps handed me my purse with that cocky grin on his face. "Does this mean you're keeping her?"
Dyllie circled around on my lap until she found just the perfect position and plopped down and promptly fell asleep. For someone who had such a bad history with canines, I had fallen for this one quickly. I credited my turnaround to the fact that she didn't really look or act like a dog. She looked like a mini teddy bear—or the dog in all those calendars that looks like a toy—and acted like a house cat.
By the time we got to Puppy Love, Dyllie was awake and whining like she needed to do a number one.
"Hold on, girl. We need to get a leash first."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Phelps smile as I nuzzled her nose. Grabbing my purse, I tucked her safely back inside and silently prayed to the gods of new dog-owners that her bladder held out.
Inside, I wandered the aisles of pet-related goodies with an awe usually reserved for a new candy store. Who gets paid to think up things like the "Pooper Picker Upper" and "Wilderdog Rain Booties"?
"Think this is what Ferrero meant?"
I turned to find Phelps holding a tiny doggie trench coat on a tiny doggie hanger. It was camel colored with original Burberry plaid lining and a matching plaid belt. Sickeningly adorable.
Dyllie would never be subjected to such humiliation. "No, thank you."
"Admit it, this is cute." He flipped up the bottom hem to reveal a bright red ruffle.
Clutching at my purse, and the whining furball inside, I shook my head vehemently. "Put it back. We have serious shopping to do."
"You shop," he agreed, "I'm getting this."
He jogged off to the front of the store, tiny doggie trench coat clutched in his hand, and left Dyllie and me to find our necessities. When we made our way to the front of the store, Phelps stood chatting with the cute clerk, a perky twenty-something smile and matching perky twenty-something breasts.
Stalking to the counter, I flung the black microfiber leash and collar and matching doggie tote down on the melamine surface.
"Good morning, Ma'am," Perky greeted. "How are you today?"
"Fine." As if I needed to feel any older. Especially around twenty-something hunks with eyes for perky redheaded clerks.
My personal history with redheads is not good.
Mental Post-it: Next time a redhead says "Hi," run the other way.
Dyllie poked her wet pink nose out the top of my purse as Perky slid the items across the scanner.
"Oooh," she cooed, "what a cute puppy. What's her name?"
While I tried to decide whether I could ignore her question without looking like a capital witch, Phelps supplied, "Dyllie. She's a Yorkie."
Was that what she was? Better than furry brown rat, I supposed.
"Hi precious." Perky reached beneath the counter and pulled out a doggie treat and held it out.
Dyllie, against my strongly broadcast mental wishes, leaned out and gingerly took the offered treat.
"What kind of diet do you have her on?" Perky asked as she placed my purchases in a large plastic bag covered in wrestling puppies and kittens.
"Diet?" I didn't know what kind of stick-figure dog world Perky came from, but Dyllie was not overweight. She was a puppy for Good&Plenty's sake.
"Yes," she explained. "Diet is crucial in a puppy her age. She needs food rich in fat, protein, and nutrients to help her little body grow big and strong."
That kind of diet. I knew that.
"You're a new pet owner, aren't you?"
I nodded, suddenly feeling woefully inadequate as Dyllie's mother. What did I know about rearing a healthy and well-adjusted dog?
Perky apparently read my self-doubts. "Not to worry," she said, handing the plastic bag to Phelps and indicating I should follow her. "We'll get you all set up."
Though I was tempted to throw Phelps a please-save-me-from-perky-twenty-something-pet-shop-clerks look, I dutifully followed. I should have known to be afraid when she pushed a shopping cart in my direction and asked, "So how big is her bedroom?"
Two hours, five-hundred dollars, one full shopping cart, and a pit stop in Central Park's Sheep Meadow later, Phelps, Dyllie, and I climbed back into the limo and headed for Bradford's. I never knew a little puppy could need so much stuff.
Leash, food, and, in the city, doggie tote, I knew. I would have eventually figured out food and water bowls, too. But there were treats and treatments. Shampoos, toothpaste, and vitamins. Beds and mats.
Dyllie's new possessions filled the trunk.
Tucked safely in her doggie tote beneath my arm, she napped peacefully as we walked past the store windows and through the elegant metal doors into the world of high-class shopping at Bradford's Men.
"Outerwear is on the sixth floor," I explained as I led the way to the elegant elevator.
Everything in Bradford's Men screamed wealthy businessman. From the button-down oxford shirts on display to the warm wood paneling covering the walls. And this season, all the displays were very brightly colored. Though I couldn't imagine a powerful, heterosexual man wearing hot pink and lavender, I knew they did. Maybe because they were powerful and knew no one would question their masculinity.
Or maybe they were secretly not so heterosexual.
"Sixth floor," the elevator announced.
We stepped off into a sea of black leather and heathered tweed. A flash of camel canvas caught my eye.
"There are the trenches." I pointed to the racks of trench coats in a rainbow of neutral colors along the far wall. Apparently powerbrokers restrict the bright colors to shirts and ties.
"Lead on, captain."
Phelps followed as I wove through the pea coats and bomber jackets and Gore-Tex parkas.
"I still can't believe you've never been to Bradford's," I reflected as we came to a stop in front of a rack of London Fog. "How can a New Yorker not come here? It's like church. Only wit
hout the preaching."
And occasionally without the guilt.
"Don't know," Phelps shrugged as he pulled a hip-length coat and held it out to look at it. "Never needed to, I guess."
I shook my head at the coat and at him. "Bradford's is not about need."
Setting the coat back on the rack, he shrugged again. "I have more clothes than I could ever ne—" He paused when he noticed my mouth preparing to repeat my last comment. "More than I could ever want. I have better things to spend my money on."
"Like trips to the Andes?"
"Nah, that was work." He shoved his hands in his pockets, as if he'd been admonished not to touch anything.
"You don't spend your money on clothes or trips and you obviously don't spend it on rent." I scanned the racks from just the right coat. "What do you spend it on? Drugs, whiskey, and women?"
"Children."
I stopped my search and stared at him. He had children? Not that I believed it wasn't possible, but he just did not strike me as the fatherly type. More like the troublemaking older brother type.
"Ch-children?" I repeated, incredulous.
He turned away, presumably to look at a rack of black leather pea coats, but I had a feeling it was to avoid my questioning gaze.
"I started a charity." His voice was flat, like he didn't care. Or was afraid to show that he cared. "A foundation to get underprivileged kids involved in their community. In making their community a better, more prosperous place."
Great Gobstoppers. He was a philanthropist.
Now that was a surprise.
"That is a noble thing," I squeaked, unable to hide my shock at his revelation.
He shrugged again, keeping his back to me. I took that as flashing neon sign to drop the topic. Reluctantly, I returned to my coat quest.
Then I saw it. The perfect, damp English night, Sam Spade trench. Knee-length camel with polished horn buttons and cashmere lining. I held it up to Phelps' back and nodded.
"This is the one."
He turned.
"Let's get it on."
The seductive look he gave me could have fried ice.
14
Q: Where does a penguin keep his money?
A: A snow bank.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #165
"I mean try it on," I quickly retreated. "You try it on."
Jeez, some people just have a one track mind. Usually men. And usually the same track.
"You're welcome to join me." He flashed that cocky grin as he slipped past me, grabbing the coat and heading for the three-way mirror.
"Just try the coat on, Elliot."
I just managed to twist out of the way as he reached to pinch my backside. I was getting faster.
"You know," he said as he shrugged the coat onto his broad shoulders, "I've always had a trench coat fantasy. It just never involved a credit card."
He tightened the belt around his lean waist, tugging it into a knot and turning for inspection.
"As a matter of fact, it never involved me wearing the coat." His smile turned seductive. "But I'm always open to adaptation."
Stepping closer, I brushed at the shoulders of the coat, smoothing out the wrinkles across the yoke and down the arms. Phelps was only inches away, smelling like Contradiction and being endearingly philanthropic to children.
Before I could stop myself, I stood on my tip-toes and pressed my lips to the corner of his mouth. "You're a good guy, Phelps Elliot," I whispered before pulling back and proclaiming, "The coat looks good."
"I'm not that good," he returned. His hands gripped my shoulders and crushed me to him in a heart-stopping kiss.
I was instantly on fire and devouring. His mouth opened, urging mine open to let him in. As his hot, hard lips pressed furiously into mine, I clutched at him, slipping my hands beneath the brushed canvas trench to sculpt his muscles with my palms.
One masculine hand pressed into my lower back, sending my body into full contact with his. I felt something cold at my back and distantly registered that he had backed me up against a mirror.
Unfortunately it was a freestanding mirror that started to topple the instant I leaned back.
With quicker reaction time than mine, Phelps wrapped one arm around my waist to hold me up while catching the tumbling mirror with the other.
"That was fast," I breathed.
"Too fast," he answered, dipping his head to resume our interrupted kiss.
But sanity returned. We were in the middle of Bradford's outerwear, shopping for business—to some extent—and he was not only my hire-a-date, but was also several years my junior. One lapse in judgment with dismissible. Two would be a pattern. Three was a habit.
I held him off with a hand to his chest. "We'd better pay for this and get out of here. I need to get to work."
Not that I had any duties to take care of. Ferrero was busy this week with preparations for Milan. Kelly had my job and with it all my responsibilities. Still, I felt I should make a showing, just to make sure everyone knew I still worked there.
The last thing I needed at this point was someone cleaning out my desk.
"You can't hide forever, Lyd." His voice purred as he caressed a finger down my cheek. "There's a heat between us and someday we will find out how hot we are."
My mouth went dry.
I backed away slowly, my eyes locked on his, unable to look away.
"Lydia," he began and reached out, "don't—"
I hastily stepped back.
Right into the mirror.
The elegant gilded frame fell to the floor with and echoing crash.
"—step back."
And I tumbled down right on top of it.
Before Phelps could stoop to help me up I rolled to the side and climbed to my feet. Thankfully my stomach had cushioned Dyllie's doggie tote in the fall, but my stomach learned that even a tiny little puppy can pack a punch with enough velocity.
"Here, let me—"
"Don't." I shrugged off his offer of help, not because I didn't want or need the help. Because I was afraid of his touch.
I was afraid to find out he was right.
That we would be scorching together.
"Let's just get the coat and go." I tried for a steady, unaffected voice, but knew that my fears quavered through.
In the tote, Dyllie whimpered and I reached in to sooth her fears. Too bad no one could sooth mine.
My desk was completely obscured by the piles of shopping bags from Puppy Love. Ferrero was in the construction studio, overseeing the final details of the Fall collection, so I had my office to myself for the first time all week.
In less than ten minutes I had checked my email, voicemail, and snail mail, thus exhausting all my current duties. I had two choices: Stay at the office trying to look busy and bored to tears, or go home and set up Dyllie's new possessions. Perky had told me the most important thing you could do for a new dog was make them feel at home, give them their own space.
I had already decided to give her a corner of my bedroom.
Decision made—there was only so much solitaire a girl could play—I lifted Dyllie into her tote and began gathering the bags.
When the phone rang I knew who it was before I answered.
"Hello," I reached into my replenished drawer and found a bag of Bon Bons.
"It's Gavin."
"Yeah, I know."
I started to unwrap a shiny pineapple, but his words stopped me.
"Can we meet somewhere?"
I told myself it would be better to talk in person. "The café around the corner?"
"I'll be there in five."
The phone clicked dead in my ear. He must have been nearby, far from his Wall Street office.
"Come on, Dyllie-girl," I slung the tote over my shoulder and slipped my hand through all the handles. "Let's go have the talk."
Gavin was waiting in the café when I got there. With a cup of coffee in front of him and a frothy drink at the place opposite him at the small metal table.<
br />
"Hi," he greeted and stood as I approached. He even took the bags from my aching wrist and set them in the corner of the terrace barrier. Always the gentleman. "You look good."
I almost said, "I look haggard," but thought better of it. Let him think I looked good.
Because he damn well looked good enough to eat on a stick.
His dark blonde hair—full of the kind of highlights women paid hundreds for—brushed neatly, as always, but one runaway lock curled across his forehead. Soft brown eyes smiling in anticipation or expectation, with little crinkles at the corners that befit a man of thirty-five.
When I didn't say anything, he tried to start the conversation. "So, you wanted to—"
"Why did you cheat on me?"
"—talk," he finished lamely. "Why did I what?"
"Cheat. Sleep around. Two-time. Cuckold." I didn't know if cuckolding applied to women, but it sounded good.
He looked shocked. Genuinely shocked. Maybe he never knew I found out. But why else would he think I broke off our engagement and never returned any calls or emails? I mean, I know adulterers never expect to get caught, but they should realize when they are.
"Lydia, what are you talking about? I never—"
"Don't deny it, Gavin, I don't have the energy." I swirled the froth on top of my drink with a spoon, too emotionally tired to look him in the eyes. "I just want to know why."
"Look at me," he commanded.
I resolutely stirred the coffee until the froth melted into the creamy drink.
"Look at me." He slammed his fist on the table when I still refused. "Damn it, look at me."
Blinking away the thin sheen of tears, I lifted my head and met his burning gaze. His eyes were open and honest and intent on me. In complete opposition to his lies.
"I never cheated on you." He enunciated each word with specific clarity. "I was unwaveringly faithful."
"Ha!" The shocked laugh burst out before I could stop it. "Then we must have a different definition of faithful. Let me clue you in: mine does not dismiss a hook-up with a secretary as a business meeting."
He closed his eyes and shook his head, as if he could not comprehend what I was talking about. Man, he was good.
Must have a lot of experience.
"I don't know what you're—"
Eye Candy Page 13
