Pool Man (7 page)

“Oh Sandy, there you are. Harlan and I were just talking about you,” I chirped.

He winced and turned slowly. His posture deflated from that of a cock-of-the-walk to a recalcitrant boy. Yeah. Sandy might be just what Harlan needed.

“You were?” She stepped into the room. Her gaze flicked from me to Harlan to me again.

“We were discussing you permanently taking on Harlan’s account.”

“We were?” I loved the squawk in his voice.

“You were?” She gored Harlan with a gimlet gaze. “My way?” Yeah, Sandy was nothing if not Machiavellian.

“Or the highway. What do you say, Harlan?”

“I wanted you.” A wail.

“I’m no longer an option.” Now that I’d said it, now that the words had come from my mouth, I knew they were true. I’d had it with playin’. I’d had it with disasters and elephants and people who needed freaking
harnesses
to do their job.

We had tons of clients who didn’t self-destruct.

Maybe I would focus on them for a while and hand the circus over to the younger crowd, my hungry associates who were willing to put up with the fan and all its concomitant crapola.

“Well,” I said, gusting a sigh, feeling strangely relieved. It was the glorious sensation of dancing on air. “I think we’re done here.” I picked up a pile of folders, all the accounts that were giving me ulcers, and I handed them to Sandy. She flipped through them and grinned.

“We are?” Harlan’s face lit up. Relief washed over him.

Sandy whirled on him. “No. Not you. In my office. Now. We have some terms to discuss.”

He paled. “Terms?”

“Such as keep your paws off my ass.”

I winced at her tone, but didn’t correct her. Because, after all, he should keep his paws off her ass. He should keep his paws off everybody’s ass.

I loved that he didn’t talk back. He stared after her as she whirled and breezed from my office with every expectation that he would follow.

He did, and it occurred to me in a flash…I really needed to add a Sandy to my book.

Marlee caught up with me the next morning. Tracked me down, actually. Stalked me, probably.

She marched into my office, her hands on her hips in tiny fists, and glowered at me. “You. Me. Coffee. Now,” she snapped, and then she whipped around, knowing I’d follow.

She said nothing as we took the long ride down in the elevator to my favorite coffee shop on the ground floor. It was also the only coffee shop on the ground floor and the place we usually met. I would have said something, should have said something, but her scorching sideways looks in my direction froze my tongue.

I’d been thinking about breaking down and calling her. But only because that terrible ache I got whenever I thought of Jimmy was becoming unbearable. When I wasn’t crying or barfing or sleeping, I was mooning over him. And sometimes, even then. I’d been thinking about calling her and beseeching her to give me his number. Even the sound of his voice would help. I was certain of it.

We walked up to the counter and we waved our cards against the reader. The baristas were already working on our drinks. There was something to be said for continuity in one’s life, at least as far as it related to coffee preferences. Janine and Anthrax always had our drinks ready by the time we’d paid. The croissants were waiting for us at the pickup counter too. Without a word, I collected my poisons and headed for the table at the window. Where we always sat.

Marlee took her usual seat and fiddled with the paper around her pastry. And then she gored me with a dark look. “I’m really pissed at you,” she said.

It was unfortunate she said it just as I took a long draw of my caffè Americano with sugar-free vanilla and three Splendas, because it all shot out my nose. I grabbed a napkin and mopped up the mess. My gut churned.

Oh God. What had Jimmy said?

“Um. Okay.”

She crossed her arms and frowned at me. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation or something? It’s bad enough that you’ve been avoiding me—”

“I’ve been swamped.”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Paige. We’ve been friends for too long. You’ve been swamped before and you never locked me out like this. What the hell is going on with you? And why didn’t you show up?”

I gaped at her. “Show up?” Had I missed an event? A party? Christ, a birthday? Mentally, I scanned my calendar. No…“What are you talking about?”

“I lent you my beautiful Caribbean home for an entire week and you never showed up.”

I swallowed the massive lump in my throat. Or tried to. “I-I did show up.”

Marlee frowned. “Jimmy said you never came.”

I tried—rather desperately—not to laugh. I failed. It erupted in a snort. I had come. More times than I could remember. “I was there, Marlee. I…loved it.” Yeah. That word caught in my throat.

“Do you need a forklift?”

“What?”

“For all the bullshit?” She leaned in. “Jimmy said you didn’t show.”

Why on earth would he say that? Confusion swirled, fogging my brain. It was exacerbated by the guilt I felt—not just for falling for her pool boy, but because of the pain now on her face.

“I was there, Marls. In fact, I have photographic evidence.” I pulled out my phone and opened my gallery. Trying, although not very hard, to squelch the triumphant tone in my voice, I thrust the device at her. “See?”

She scrolled through the photos, leisurely swipes, turning the phone sideways several times to get a better look. Her eyes widened on one and I knew which photo she’d found. Jimmy. On the bed. Naked. The photo I’d snapped while he slept, all mumbly and restless. My grand reminder of a magnificent fling. A magnificent man.

I pretended to ignore the rising chagrin at presenting her with proof—proof that I’d had him. But good.

Marlee’s features rumpled. She handed back my phone. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Paige,” she said. “But that’s not my house.”

I gaped at her. “But…Jimmy…”

She shook her head. Her curls bobbled. A wicked glint danced in her eyes. “That’s not my house, that’s not my pool, and that…” She gestured to the picture of long, lean limbs tangled in satin sheets. “That’s not Jimmy.”

I wasn’t sure which emotion to grapple with first. The gushing relief that
he
was not
hers
, that they’d never made wild, passionate love in that bed…

Or the fact that I had waltzed into some random house, stripped down to the buff and demanded sex from a complete stranger.

And,
holy crud.
The worst thought of all hit me like a wrecking ball.

He wasn’t Jimmy.

I didn’t even know his name.

I didn’t have a clue who he was.

He was gone. Utterly gone.

Lost to me forever.

Part Two: Danny

Chapter Seven

She’d had me from the very start. The instant she’d sashayed into my foyer and stripped down to her birthday suit, I’d been lost.

It had shocked me, looking down the long hallway and seeing this woman with her rampant curls, her pixyish face and all that bare skin.

In my foyer.

Buck naked.

I had no idea what she was doing there, but she seemed so sure of herself and she looked so goddamned sexy in that bikini, I couldn’t bring myself to ask.

So I made her a margarita—several, in fact—and watched her float in the pool while I thought it over.

And I decided to keep her.

She didn’t seem like a typical groupie. As far as that goes, I was convinced she didn’t even know who I was. I have no idea why that bothered me. There were probably lots of people who’d never heard of me. Somewhere.

Not that I was a slave to my ego. I was just used to being recognized. Which was why, when I went on vacation, I opted for the most remote spot I could find. A spot where it was highly unlikely that a groupie would waltz into my foyer and strip naked.

As a groupie, she was a dismal failure.

She hadn’t even asked me to sign her boob.

She hadn’t asked anything of me…except me.

Maybe that was why I was still fascinated with her, now, weeks later.

I stabbed at my frittata. That was a lie and I knew it. There were many other reasons why I was fascinated with her. Her ignorance of my name was not one of them.

I should have called her on it the first time she called me Jimmy. I should have said something—
um, I’m not Jimmy
, perhaps—but that would have ended it right then and there. And she was too amusing. Too alluring. Too damn much fun. And fuck, I’d wanted her.

Maybe I should have said something the fourth or the fifth time she called me Jimmy. Or all the times she’d warbled
his
name when I was buried deep inside her. But I didn’t. Because by then it was too late. By then I couldn’t bear for it to end.

And then one day I woke up and she was gone. Everything was gone. Every vestige of her existence had disappeared.

As though she’d never been there at all. As though I’d imagined everything.

I sure as fuck hadn’t.

It was etched on my brain. Every minute. Every word. Every touch.

But she was gone and all I knew about her was that she was a publicist here in LA.

Hell, I didn’t even know her name.

She’d tossed it out breezily that first day, but I’d been so preoccupied by the sight of her in that itsy-bitsy excuse of a bikini, I’d missed it. And I thought it might make things awkward if I asked her later.

Excuse me, miss, I know we just fucked brilliantly and unforgettably in my bed, but what was your name again?

Yeah. Awkward.

Now I wished to God I’d asked.

Now I had nothing to go on except for her offhand comments about work, and I desperately wanted to find her, touch her, hold her again.

Hell. There were a million publicists in LA. Maybe more.

After she’d left, inspired, I’d spent the rest of my month-long hiatus working on a book of my own.
Sizzling Recipes for Seduction
. My hope was she would discover the book someday in a bookstore. Flip it over. See my face. My hope was she’d read it. Recognize herself in the words and contact me. It was a thin hope, but it was something.

And hell, I needed
something
.

The acrid odor of scorched sulfur wafted to my nostrils and I glanced down at my pan and winced.

Shit.
I’d done it again. I’d been burning food a lot lately.

“Cut!”
Sergio’s bellow rocked through the studio. I shot an apologetic look around the room. The crew was glaring at me and grumbling.

They did that sometimes. More so, lately.

Ethan, my manager, scuttled over, looking out of place in an Armani suit. The crew was dressed in casual grunge and I wore my typical uniform for a taping—jeans and a tee shirt complete with my
Stud Chef
apron. But Ethan almost always wore a suit. I think he thought it gave him some sort of managerial élan. It might have, had it fit him. Slender and slight, he looked like a boy trying on his father’s clothes.

“Danny, what the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed.

“Wrong with me?” Nothing was wrong with me that finding a certain blue-eyed vixen couldn’t cure.

“You keep zoning out right in the middle of a dish. Staring off into space.” Ethan put his fists on his hips and shot me a reproving glance. It came off as a prickly pout. “You haven’t been the same since you got back. Vacations are supposed to refresh you.”

Oh, it had refreshed me all right…

Wrapped as I’d been in the arms of a wild woman.

A woman who hated celebrities.

I scrubbed my face with a palm.

Maybe I wasn’t that big of a celebrity.
She
certainly hadn’t recognized me.

But then hope rose. I
did
know more about her. She was a publicist here in LA, she had a friend named Marlee who, for some reason she didn’t want to talk about, and she wasn’t terribly fond of celebrities, especially rockers. One in particular who needed a root canal with no anesthesia, to be eaten by piranhas, and possibly a hot-sauce enema.

“Don’t quote lyrics,”
she’d said.
“I’m on vacation. The last thing I want to think about is work.”

Okay. So she was a publicist here in LA who
worked
with rockers and she had a friend named Marlee. Marlee wasn’t a terribly common name. Wasn’t there a rock star named—

My head whipped around. I snapped my fingers at Ethan. “Find out who Marlee Rudde’s publicist is,” I barked. Marlee Rudde. Aussie rocker chick. Lived in LA. My heart did a little flippy thing.

Ethan’s lips flapped. “But Danny, you have a publicist.”

I did. But he didn’t have riotous curls and a turned-up nose and a snorty laugh. He didn’t snuffle when he slept. His name was Orin and he smelled like old cheese. “Just find out, Ethan.”

As soon as I had that, I had her.

I would have her.

Again.

Say what you want about Ethan and his too-large suits and his Napoleon complex and his issues with overactive sweat glands, but when he set his mind to something, he was a savant. He had the name of Marlee Rudde’s publicist before I was finished with the taping.

The session took longer than usual, on account of the fact that I kept drifting off into la-la land and fantasizing about seeing her again.

Whatever her name was.

I was stunned, befuddled by her effect on me. I’d never met a woman quite like her. So funny, so sexy, and with such beautiful toes. She probably looked amazing in heels…

Yeah. I wandered off again to think about that for a while.

She did that to me. Made me forget. Took me away from the banal.

The sex between us had been scorching.

I wanted more.

It bothered me, the way I’d tossed everything aside while she’d been there. The way my whole busy life seemed to melt away like a poorly turned soufflé. Hell, because I’d been thinking about her—thinking about bending her over the marble island and taking her right there in the kitchen—I’d almost forgotten the paprika for the risotto. I never forgot the paprika.

That could mean something. It could mean she was too dangerous, too much woman, too overwhelming for me to fit her in my life.

But I’d had a month without her.

I’d had a month to explore the big, gaping hole her absence created.

There was room for her.

There was plenty of room.

If she wanted in.

Ruthlessly, I pushed away the lingering doubts and fears—I definitely didn’t have room for
those
in my life—and took the information Ethan handed me.

Because I needed to see her again. I needed to know if that dream we’d shared had any footing in the real world.

And the only way to figure that out was to see her again.

I’d like to say I wasn’t nervous as I scuttled into my dressing room and opened my laptop. I’d like to say my fingers didn’t shake as I typed the firm’s name into my laptop. But they would both be lies.

The website loaded at a snail’s pace and I cursed the damn slow Wi-Fi in the studio. Someone told me once it was due to the aluminum roof, but I was convinced it was the gods, toying with me. They were wont to do that on occasion.

The page finally loaded. It was trendy and clean; the company, B&B Publicity, was branded as a boutique firm, handling “small clients with a personal touch.” It was co-owned by Suzie Banks and Paige Barber. I clicked on “About Us.” A thrill danced through my bowels as a photo unfurled. Pixel by pixel. I ground my teeth with impatience.

And then my heart sank as a woman with a short dark bob and heavy glasses appeared.

Well hell. That wasn’t her. Maybe she was an associate of the firm? I glanced at the menu bar but there was no tab for “Hot and Horny Associates,” so I scrolled down to see if photos of the other staff had been included on the website and—

My heart seized. Shrank into a hard ball in my chest. My breath froze in my lungs. Then my pulse launched into a manic tattoo.

There she was.

As quickly as the sight of her had imploded in me, something deep within began to expand, to swell, to fly.

Good God. I’d found her.

There she was.

There, with her sparkling blue eyes, trying so hard to look serious, those rampant curls neatly tamed for the photo, her chin tipped up defiantly. The hint of a Mona Lisa smile touched her pink lips, as though she knew she was
posing
as someone professional and prim, and it amused her.

This woman, dressed in a smart pinstripe suit and silk blouse, would never strip naked in a strange man’s foyer.

But I could tell by her expression—and I
knew,
because I’d seen her soul—she was not
this
woman.

And her name was Paige.

“Paige.”

I tested it on my tongue.

It tasted like truffles.

Elation skewered me.

I didn’t take a moment to define it or examine it or stuff it into a box. It was far too large for boxes, this feeling. This
joy
.

I’d found her. I would see her again.

“Ethan!” I bellowed, my course set in my mind, my heart.

By God, I was seeing her again.

It took a while for me to decide where I should meet her. My first instinct was to have her come to my house, but upon reflection, I thought that might be too intimate and far too soon.

There was a chance our vacation fling had been just that to her. A fling. With a guy named Jimmy. There was a chance she wouldn’t want to see me again. That she didn’t feel the way I felt.

We’d shared something amazing on that island, something I urgently wanted to explore. But I had to man up and face the possibility that for her it hadn’t been mind-blowing.

It sure as shit had been for me. And not just the sex.

The sex had been mind-blowing for sure. But it had been so much more than just that. The late-night chats about nothing in particular but somehow everything that mattered, the hours we’d spent cuddled in bed, the meals we’d shared.

When I remembered the one meal she’d attempted, my lips lifted.

Paige Barber was a woman who needed a man. A man who could cook.

I thought about other potential spots for our reunion, ranging from romantic—a private dinner at one of my restaurants—to the sublime. But flying her out to our island getaway was costly and time-consuming and I had a schedule to keep. She was probably very busy too. In the end I decided we should meet in Ethan’s offices, because they were neutral ground.

I knew she’d be surprised to see me there, because she thought I was this Jimmy character and all. It might come as less of a shock if there were other people around. And, call him what you want, Ethan was far from shocking.

And if, by some strange quirk of fate, she didn’t want to see me again, ever, she could just leave.

And that would be that.

Oh hell. The thought nearly destroyed me.

Ethan contacted their firm and made arrangements for a representative to meet with us about the coming book tour. The book tour was months away, but it was all I had to cling to now. I knew she was interested in books—she was writing one after all.

We asked for one of the firm’s principles. I could only hope she didn’t send Suzie in her place, or all my worrying and planning and plotting would be for naught.