Champagne Rules (4 page)

“Me too.” He’d failed at marriage, and he hated to fail. He ought to at least be able to succeed at being Tonya’s friend.

“So, let me tell you my real reason for calling.” Now her voice rippled with excitement. “You want a new client?”

“Always,” he said promptly, straightening and grabbing a pad of paper and a pen.

“God, Jax. You sound so . . . hungry.”

“I am. Bringing in clients is one of the criteria for partnership.”

“I know, believe me I know.” But this time her voice was teasing, without the barb. “So I figured I’d do my bit to contribute to the game plan.”

“You know someone who needs a lawyer?”

“Yeah. Me.”

“You?”

“It’s time. I’ve been looking around. Found a perfect place, a price I can afford, so . . .” She gave a shaky laugh. “Yes, I’m doing it!”

She was going to open her own restaurant.

Damn, she wasn’t a real client. Not for him, in the highpowered litigation department. He represented corporations fighting product liability suits, antitrust charges and so on. Fuck. What an asshole he was, for reacting this way. 

“Jesus, Tonya, that’s great. Congratulations.” This was her dream. She’d worked for it and he really was happy for her.

“How can I help?”

“Oh, all that corporate stuff. You work with corporations, right?”

Had she ever really listened when he talked about his work? Or had he ever found the time to try to explain it to her, beyond telling her about all those billable hours he needed to put in?

“Space and equipment leases,” she was saying, “contracts with employees and suppliers. Oh, and before I do all that, of course I’ll actually need to incorporate.”

He was scribbling as she talked, adding other tasks she hadn’t mentioned. “Most of this work is done by paralegals, so we can keep the bill down.”

“Thanks. And you can have dinner on the house any time. Bring a date too.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. Didn’t sound to him like the recipe for a relaxing meal.

Not that he had time to date, anyhow.

Ever since he was old enough to understand the sacrifices his mom was making for him, he’d been determined to succeed. To make her proud, justify all she’d done for him. If he stuck to work, ignored all distractions, he’d make partner in another year or two. Then, maybe, senior partner. Just the thought of it made his heart pump. An immigrant kid from Jamaica, raised by a single mom who worked two minimum-wage jobs, becoming senior partner at one of the most prestigious law firms in San Francisco. Now there was a dream he could buy into!

But this was Tonya’s day, not his. “When the incorporation comes through, I’m buying you a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

“Sonoma bubbly will do me just fine. I’m a California girl and I absolutely refuse to get all pretentious.”

“Not going to serve French wine at that restaurant of yours?”

“No way. I’m going to focus on local products. The cuisine’ll be a blend of everything that’s gone into the making of California. Kind of like me.”

Tonya had been born here, but her grandparents truly were an ethnic mix, with roots in Africa, China, Scotland and Mexico.

“Jax?” Her voice was breathy with excitement. “I just thought of a name. What about ‘Made in California?’ ”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Gotta go. I’m going to call Benjamin and see what he thinks of the name.” As always, there was a little fizz in her voice—a sexual one—when she said her husband’s name. He envied her those damned bells and whistles. Caitlin tapped on his door, opened it and poked her orangetipped head through. “Your next client’s here.”

Tonya had Benjamin; he had a client.

Bells and whistles? Yeah, sure. That’d be the day. 

The Awesome Foursome had decided to hold their ad-drafting meeting at Suzanne’s place, rather than a restaurant. Her apartment was a renovated garage at the back of her parents’ yard in Kerrisdale. Furnished with hand-me-downs and garage sale bargains, the cozy space was divided into a small eating-and-living area, an even smaller bedroom-andoffice and a closet-sized bathroom. Suzanne loved its compactness, plus how it allowed her to have both closeness to and independence from her parents.

Tonight, though, she could have done with it being about a hundred miles rather than a hundred yards removed from her mom and dad’s kitchen window.

She was nervous enough about what she and the girls were contemplating; she definitely didn’t need parental scrutiny. Of course, chances were, after drinking a bunch of wine and tossing out a few silly ideas, they’d abandon the whole project. Pausing in the act of opening the Yellowtail cabernet sauvignon Ann had brought, Suzanne glanced out her own window to see her mother standing on the back porch, saying hello to Rina. 

Rina, in black leggings and gauzy black tunic top, with a red scarf draped around her neck, was a gypsy in an English country garden. She handed two pizza boxes to Suzanne’s mom. What on earth? Was she giving away their dinner?

Ah. Rina was rooting around in her tote bag and finally pulling out a brochure. For the Pacific Northwest Opera, no doubt. She played second clarinet, as well as teaching clarinet and piano to students of all ages.

She passed the brochure to Suzanne’s mom and retrieved the pizzas just as Jenny joined them, bearing a pan that hopefully contained her decadent double-chocolate brownies. The three chatted cozily—and far too long for Suzanne’s peace of mind. Jenny in particular was not noted for verbal restraint, and the last thing Suzanne wanted was for her mother to know about tonight’s agenda.

With a touch of desperation, Suzanne went to the door, waved the wine bottle and called, “Anyone ready for a drink?”

That did it. Her friends said quick good-byes, and hurried over. Rina said, “Your mom’s going to get tickets for PNO’s next concert.”

“Great.” Suzanne took one of the Martini’s pizza boxes. “You didn’t tell her what we’re doing tonight?”

“You betcha!” Jenny said loudly. “Told her we were pimping her daughter out to a Greek god.” Then, “Jeez, Suzie, give us credit for having a little discretion.”

Ann came in from the other room. “I’m hungry. I’ve laid out some deli salads. Would you guys get a move on?”

Jenny opened the pizza boxes. “I got a chicken-spinach-feta and a pepperoni-onion-mushroom.”

“Good,” Rina said, “I can eat everything but the crust.”

She was always on a diet, saying she was too fat—though as far as Suzanne could see, what she hid under all those layers of clothes was the kind of curvy body men drooled over.

“And I brought retsina.” Rina extracted a bottle from her tote, eliciting a chorus of “yucks.” She shook her head. “We don’t have to drink it all, just spill a few drops. A libation to the Greek gods, so they’ll bless this enterprise.”

Suzanne gave her the corkscrew and Rina opened the bottle and poured a bit into all their glasses. They flicked a few drops around. Melody and Zorro, two of Suzanne’s three cats, eagerly darted forward, took one sniff, then retreated, whiskers twitching in disgust.

“My feelings exactly,” Ann said. She lifted her glass. “Okay, girls, a toast. Down the hatch. Then we can have some decent Aussie cab.”

“To snaring a Greek god,” Jenny toasted, and they all clicked glasses.

Ann popped a couple of pills into her mouth before drinking.

“You okay?” Suzanne asked.

“Just a headache. Missed lunch, stressful day.” She grinned.

“And it’s no fun writing a sexy ad with a headache.”

“You work too hard.”

“Don’t I know it.” She pointed toward the door, where she’d dropped her briefcase on the way in. “Yeah, I can leave the office at six. But only if I lug about three hours work home with me.”

“Sorry. God, Ann, you shouldn’t be wasting your time on this silly stuff, then having to work to all hours.”

Ann shook her head vigorously, then winced. “I needed a break anyhow. Besides, if a girl can’t make time for her best friends, there’s something seriously wrong with her.”

Suzanne reached over to hug her. Then they all settled around the coffee table. After the first few nibbles and sips, they got down to work, tossing out suggestions.

“Notes,” Ann said, putting down a half-eaten wedge of pizza and scrambling over to pull a legal pad from her briefcase. Soon she was busy scrawling, crossing out, reading back. Finally, when they were into a second round of brownies—all but Rina who’d only nibbled on her first one—she cleared her throat. “All right, children, I think this is it.” She held up the pad and began to read, putting on a breathy, sexy voice that was completely unlike her normal speaking voice.

“ ‘Are you the man who shared sizzling sex with a hot blonde in the cave above the nude beach on Crete four years ago? If you feel like another erotic adventure, drop me a line. Be sure to tell me what you remember about that afternoon, so I’ll know it’s really you.’ ”

“Escapade,” Jenny said. “Rather than ‘adventure.’ Comes from ‘escape’—i.e., to escape restraint, inhibition.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a writer,” Ann said, scribbling the change.

Jenny was a freelance journalist who scraped together a living researching and writing articles, mostly on human interest subjects.

“How flattering,” Jen responded. “Just ’cause I’m little and wear pink, doesn’t mean I’m a bimbette.”

“I know, I know. It’s just a surprise when you pull out the big words.”

Jen leaped to her feet, swatted Ann’s shoulder, then said,

“Let’s boot up the computer.”

Ann handed the pad to Suzanne. “Final proofread?”

Suzanne stared down at the words. “Erotic escapade.” That was so not her. And yet, they perfectly described the afternoon on Crete. Could she be that woman again? Did she want to be?

She held up a hand in a “time-out” gesture. “Hold on. This has been fun, but we’re not really going to do it, right?”

“I did
not
skip out of work early, just for you to bail on us,”

Ann said.

“Suzie, we’re just placing the ad,” Rina said softly. “What’re the odds of actually finding the man? And if by some wild chance he actually does respond, then you can decide what you want to do.” True. If he didn’t answer the ad, it didn’t prove he didn’t exist. It didn’t mean her afternoon of magic—of being the sexiest woman in the world—hadn’t really occurred. And if, by some miracle, he did answer . . . Then the next step would be up to her.

Suzanne squared her shoulders. “Let’s do it.”

They crowded into her teeny bedroom and clustered round the computer that sat on a small desk by the window. Mouse, her little grey cat, who’d been sleeping on the keyboard as usual, jumped up. He shot her a dirty look and stalked out the door. Even though the bedroom window faced away from her parents’ house, Suzanne pulled the curtains firmly shut.

“Jenny, you’re the computer whiz. Do your stuff.”

Her friend clicked and tapped deftly, then said, “All right, Suzie-Q, what’s your alias?”

“Um . . . How about ‘islandgirl?’ ”

“Cute,” Rina said.

“Dull, dull, dull,” Jenny said. “It makes me think of that movie
You’ve Got Mail
. Wasn’t her e-mail name ‘shopgirl’?

Can you think of any better way of saying ‘hello, I’m really, really boring’?”

But she
was
boring. Wholesome, traditional. She was a student who lived in her parents’ backyard, shared her apartment with three cats, and dreamed of one day being a modern-day version of June Cleaver.

Of course, on that enchanted afternoon her behavior had been so out of character, so . . . “‘ Outrageous,’ ” she said, her voice coming out husky, almost sexy.

“Now you’re talking!” Jenny tapped away at the keyboard.

“Oh damn, it’s taken. The good ones are always taken. How about adding a number to it? We can try ‘outrageous1,’ ‘outrageous2.’ ”

“ ‘ 69,’ ” Suzanne said, then clapped a hand over her mouth as her friends howled. “No, honestly, I didn’t mean that. My evil twin made me say it.”

“Your sexy twin,” Jenny said. “It’s perfect. Now, if only someone else hasn’t thought of it.” She tapped away then pumped her fist into the air. “All right! Suzanne Brennan, you are now officially ‘outrageous69.’ ”

Before Suzanne knew it, the ad was placed and her friends were splitting up the leftovers and heading out. By the time she’d tidied up the kitchen, Suzanne was having serious third thoughts. What was she thinking, pretending to be some outrageous, sexy, sizzling gal?

She was a twenty-four-year-old vet student who had her life mapped out. She was a firm believer in setting long-and shortterm goals, and so far that approach had worked beautifully for her. Her summer and part-time work as a veterinarian’s assistant not only paid her tuition, but assured her she’d chosen the right career, and even promised a job when she finally graduated. She knew exactly what her husband would be like, because her dad and brother-in-law provided the perfect role models. Mr. Cleaver, as her friends jokingly called him, would have a job he loved—a meaningful job—but would work regular hours and put his wife and kids first, always. Her friends teased her about being so old-fashioned, but Suzanne didn’t care. She valued security and truly wasn’t a risk taker. That’s why this whole internet thing was so crazy. Crazy, yet . . . kind of exciting.

Yes, it was exciting to think she might again experience amazing sex with a stunningly handsome man. Then she shook her head. Let’s face it, great sex and Suzanne Brennan didn’t go together. In her cave-sex dream, she became a sexy woman, but somehow that image of herself never carried beyond the dream. She’d had a couple of lovers in the last few years, but every time things got hot and heavy, she just kind of . . . locked up.

The word “escapade” came from escape, as in to let go of inhibitions, Jenny had said. If her Greek god really did exist and she found him, would she be able to escape her stupid inhibitions with him?

What if she couldn’t? That was a scary thought. After pulling on cotton pajamas, she stopped and stared at the computer screen. Would there be any answers yet? Why had she promised the girls not to look until next Monday?

Man, it was stressful, placing a personals ad. Kind of like throwing a party. What if no one came? What if too many people came? What if weird people showed up? What if the right guy didn’t?