Private Relations (7 page)

And yet, even as he fell back in time, he was also acutely in the present. She was wearing some light, sexy scent that was new, and he felt that he was different, more mature, old enough to appreciate what he’d so carelessly let go.

Was he any closer to getting her back now that they were so physically intimate? For all that their bodies had joined as spectacularly as ever, he felt, from the moment he’d seen that flash of vulnerability in her eyes, that she’d quickly hidden from him, that part of her was shut off. Maybe he wouldn’t have noticed if he couldn’t compare this Kit with the Kit of three years ago who’d been so open she never held anything back—not what she was thinking, or feeling, or what she wanted. Nor was she ever shy to ask him what he wanted.

Almost too open, he’d thought at the time. He wasn’t used to it—not quite sure what to do with anyone who showed so much energy for everything from arguing politics to Friday night volleyball to lovemaking. It had made him a little uncomfortable, as though he were secretive when he was really just being his normal self.

And, of course, now that she’d become guarded—like most adults who’d been scarred a few times—and she wasn’t putting it all out there, now that he wasn’t party to every thought she had the second she had it,
every wild idea that she’d turn into reality if he gave her the slightest encouragement, he found he missed it.

He wandered alone down memory lane and then suddenly laughed aloud.

“What?” Kit asked beside him.

“Do you remember when you made us all dress up and go to some fancy do at the yacht club? It was for members only, but you were trying to interview some tycoon or other for a course you were taking. You and me and Piper and some guy she had on the string, we all dressed up and tried to talk our way into the yacht club. They would have tossed us out if you hadn’t been so convincing.”

She didn’t laugh along with him and he turned his head to see her smile perfunctorily. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was a good time, Kit.”

The possibility hovered in the air that she might actually let this conversation happen. For a second time, he caught sight of the vulnerability, he read the
why
in her eyes, and then it was gone. She rolled to the side of the bed and was on her feet before he could put out a hand to stop her.

He didn’t say anything, in case she was going to the bathroom, but when she started dressing, he said, “Where are you going?”

The bright smile she sent him was as phony as the Smiley Face on her watch. “I’ve got a million things to organize for tomorrow. Have to keep the big winner in the Carnaby Suite happy, you know.”

“You just made the guy in the Carnaby Suite incredibly happy. I’d be even happier if you stayed the night.”

The second time they’d made love had been slow and
sweet, the kind of sex that ends in sleep. Except that he’d blown it by bringing up the past.

He stacked his hands behind his head and watched her.

Considering how long it had taken her to remove those clothes, she had them back on again in a heartbeat. He didn’t know a woman could dress that fast. She walked around the bed and leaned in to kiss him quickly, all efficiency. The intimacy they’d shared was gone.

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

He watched her all the way to the door, and when she left, with a cheery wave that made him feel dismissed and, frankly, pissed-off he wondered if there was a lonelier place in the world than an entire suite designed for sex when the woman you loved and wanted to make love to was walking out the door.

Okay, she’d played this scene her way.

The next time they got naked, he decided, he’d be the one calling the shots. And her leaving right after doing the deed was not going to happen.

T
HERE WAS SHOPPING
,
and there was shopping.

There was Richard Gere taking Julia Roberts down Rodeo Drive and giving her carte blanche on his credit card in
Pretty Woman.

That was romantic, sexy, and obviously the kind of shopping Peter had in mind—though she certainly wasn’t interested in using his card. She had plenty of her own.

Then there was the kind of shopping every man she’d ever known—including Peter—loathed.

Kit allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she glanced over the list she’d made.

Peter’s punishment was about to begin.

He hadn’t said anything about breakfast and she hadn’t pried. After too few hours of sleep, she’d made do with a cup of coffee and a muffin in her office while she confirmed everything for the day.

Then she ran home to her own place for some clothes. Instead of picking him up in his room—which, after last night, was probably a bad idea—she called him from the lobby and had him meet her there.

He arrived in some kind of tweedy wool pants and a casual jacket. Totally Richard Gere in
Pretty Woman.
She wore jeans, a soft pink wrap-around shirt and the comfiest sneakers she owned.

When he walked toward her, her mind flashed to the night before when he’d first entered her body and she’d wanted to prove she could enjoy him for sex without the dangerous tangle of emotions. For about five seconds, she’d fooled herself it could be done. Then she’d wanted to weep. Or hit him. Both, maybe.

But the first time was bound to involve painful recollections, she reminded herself. He was still sexy and attractive to her. He’d won his fantasy weekend and she intended that he would have exactly that.

If she got some very nice sex out of the bargain, what was so terrible about that?

And if she made him suffer a teensy bit, well, she was only human.

“You really want to go shopping?” she asked, feeling suddenly guilty and giving him a last chance to back out.

“Absolutely,” he said, not fooling her for a second.

“Great. Do you have anything you need to get?”

“Not really.”

“Because I do.” She pulled out a list that should have made him run screaming. “We could use the hotel limo if you want, but I thought it might be more fun to walk.”

“Sure.”

“The limo will pick us up and take us for lunch.”

“We’re going to Central Park in a limo?” Peter’s steps faltered as they hadn’t when he saw her long shopping list.

“That’s right. You’ll feel like a movie star or an oil sheikh.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he mumbled. But since they were passing out of the hotel as he spoke, she pretended she hadn’t heard him over the sudden noise of traffic.

“Thanks, Carl,” she said to today’s cute doorman. She was certain they had the cutest doormen in all Manhattan.

“You’re welcome, Kit. Can I call your limo?” He lifted his silver whistle as he spoke, but she shook her head. “We’re going to walk.”

“Okay. You have a nice day.”

While they walked, she consulted her list. “I need to get a gift for my mother’s birthday, I need some new place mats for my apartment, and I need a shower gift for Beck Desmond and May.”

“Beck Desmond, the writer?”

“Yes. He’s getting married to May, who came here as a guest and now does the flowers.”

“Cool.”

Peter leaned over her shoulder and she heard him chuckle.

“What?”

“Your list is in different colors.”

“I know it’s—”

“Don’t tell me. I can guess,” he said, his voice warm and filled with gentle humor. “You love your mom, so she got pink. Place mats are boring, so you wrote that in blue pen. I’m guessing you’re excited about the wedding shower, because that’s in purple.”

She tucked the list away, realizing that Peter knew her far too well. This was a dangerous game she was playing. Sure, she was over him and the past was the past, but if he broke her heart again she didn’t think she’d recover.

So they’d had some laughs, enjoyed some nice sex last night. It didn’t mean she had to let herself get gushy over him. In trying to prove to everyone, especially Peter, that she was over him, she’d better make sure she stayed that way.

She kept the pace brisk. With the crowds and the noise of traffic, street vendors hawking their wares, sirens and cell phones, there wasn’t much chance of conversation.

She swept through the revolving doors of Bloomingdale’s with Peter gamely in pursuit. She’d been so busy making sure Peter got bored that she hadn’t considered how weird it would be to shop for a bridal shower gift with a man she’d almost married.

Not a good idea. Maybe she’d leave the shower gift for later when she was on her own.

Place mats. Also on her list. But even buying something for her apartment with Peter was too intimate. Putting her food on place mats that he’d helped pick out? Scratch place mats off her list.

That left a gift for her mother.

“You know,” she said, hesitating, “I think I’ll get my mother something from the museum gift shop.”

“Okay. But what about all that other stuff on your list?”

“Maybe later.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

So she called the limo and they were whisked to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. As she went into one of her favorite places on Earth, she wondered why it had been so long since she’d been here.

“What’s the matter?” Peter asked.

“Maybe I need to stop working so much. I haven’t been here in almost a year. One of the reasons I moved to Manhattan was so I could go to Broadway and the Met and do all the things tourists dream of.”

“So what happened?”

“I turned into a New Yorker. I never have time for any of that stuff anymore.” She sighed. “It’s a tragedy.”

“Well, today you get to combine business and pleasure. What’s not great about that?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How long have I got?”

“As long as you want.”

She shook her head slowly. “You’re not fooling me. How long until your feet start to hurt, you sit on the benches and play with your cell phone, and generally act like a pain in the ass?”

He gazed around the Great Hall that was currently filled with tourists and way too many parents who didn’t believe in discipline. “An hour, tops.”

Deciding not to take Piper’s advice and drag him through the costumes galleries or worse, textiles, she tried to think what he’d most enjoy. “French Impressionists?” She raised her brows.

He looked marginally relieved. “Why not?”

Being a Saturday, the place was fairly crowded, but she sort of liked the ebb and flow of people. She didn’t protest when Peter took her hand in his. He seemed happy to stop where she stopped, gaze at whatever caught her fancy. As they wandered around the second-floor galleries that displayed the Met’s renowned collection of French and European paintings.

“She reminds me of you,” he said after they went down the stairs to check out the modern-art galleries.

She followed his gaze. “The Modigliani, you mean?”

“Yes. The painting is called—” he stopped to read the sign “—Reclining Nude.”

“I don’t look a bit like her. She has that elongated face.”

“Of course you don’t look like her. But the pose, and the way she’s so relaxed in her body, that’s what you were like last night when you lay on that big bed with your arms over your head like that, and your head turned
to look at me.” He leaned closer. “I didn’t know the Met was going to make me horny,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “You are such a connoisseur of art.”

“Hey,” he said with a grin, “I know what I like.”

“Let’s go to the gift shop and get something for my mother.”

“Okay. I wonder if they have posters of the Modigliani. My apartment’s pretty bare.”

“As a souvenir to remember this weekend?” she teased.

He stared at her and his look was so intimate she caught her breath. “I won’t need any souvenirs to remember this weekend,” he said. “And I’ll never forget last night.”

Her pulse jumped in a combination of unwilling response and alarm. “Peter, I—”

“So, how is your mom?” he asked, and she was glad he’d cut her off since she didn’t know what to say.

“She’s fine. Good.”

“Are they still living in the same place?”

“Oh, yes.”

When they got to the gift shop, Peter helped her choose a pair of silver-and-black onyx Parisian Art Deco earrings for her mother. That done, she realized it was time for lunch if they were going to stick to their schedule.

She loved having the limo at her disposal. The traffic nightmare that was New York was something she would never become accustomed to. She loved being chauffeured. And since she was on legitimate Hush business, she could indulge without feeling guilty.

“We’re lucky it’s still warm enough to picnic,” she said as they sank back into the cushioned leather seats
for the very short ride down Fifth Avenue and along East 72nd St. to the Bethesda Terrace in Central Park where the driver would let them out. From there, it was only a five-minute walk to Strawberry Fields, the perfect spot for a picnic.

“I was kind of hoping it would rain.”

“You were?”

“Yes. Then we could have moved the picnic indoors.”

“Where exactly, indoors?”

“My suite.”

“Do you ever think of anything but sex?”

“Not this weekend,” he said, and leaning forward kissed her softly.

When they reached the terrace, Big Al, the limo driver, unloaded a wicker picnic basket and a red plaid blanket from the trunk. When he would have carried it for them, Peter balked and insisted on taking over from there.

“We’ll call you when we’re done, Al. Thanks,” Kit said as Peter took the basket.

“I was thinking of deli sandwiches in a paper bag,” he muttered as he hauled along the basket.

They found a spot and kicked off their shoes. She spread the blanket and sank onto it. Peter settled beside her.

“I love it here,” Kit said, tipping her face to the sun. Strawberry Fields, a two-and-half-acre, tear-shaped park, was designed in commemoration of John Lennon. A tribute to Lennon, a black-and-white mosaic, with the single word,
Imagine,
had become an unofficial shrine to his memory where fans left flowers and tokens. Today one white rose wilted in the heat.

They weren’t the only ones picnicking in Strawberry Fields, but Kit suspected their meal was the most elegant.

She’d asked for something simple and rustic, but it was designer simple.

There was cold roast chicken with rosemary and lemon and artisan breads, cheeses and olives, grapes and apples and an almond and apple cake. There was Italian soda and sparkling water to drink and, to finish off, chocolate truffles.

“I feel like I should have brought a book of poetry and I should read it to you,” Peter said as he demolished a chicken sandwich.

“What kind of poetry would you recite?” she asked him. The sun was warm on her face and the scent of grass and trees was a rare pleasure.

“I’d like to say it would be Shakespearean sonnets, but in truth?” he leaned over to touch her hair. “I’d read you erotic poetry.”

Then Kit’s cell phone rang, a mood shatterer if there ever was one. She checked the number. “Sorry,” she said to Peter. “It’s the hotel. I have to answer.” Then she stuck her professional smile on her face and answered. “Kit Prestcott.”

“We have a problem,” said Janice, the hotel’s general manager.

“What is it?”

“Our other fantasy winner checked in.”

“Our other fantasy winner? But…there’s only one.”

“Irene Bonnet is standing at the registration desk at this very moment.”

“Irene Bonnet?” Irene was the comedienne with the Cinderella fantasy. “She’s the second winner. She’s not due until next weekend.”

“Well, the thing is—she’s here.”

“Look, call on all your tact, but she can’t come this
weekend, she has to come next weekend. We already have a fantasy winner.”

“She’s waving around her congratulations letter—the one signed by Piper.”

“Right.”

“And the dates are for this weekend.”

“No. That’s impossible…”

“Kit, she’s not the sort of person you can quietly fob off, if you know what I mean.”

“Damn it, I should have proofed that letter myself before Piper signed it.” She sucked in a breath.

“Why didn’t she show up yesterday?”

“She said she had to perform somewhere on Friday night and she called Piper who told her she could change her Friday through Sunday to Saturday through Monday.” Janice was putting on as much fake pleasantness as Kit, but it was clear she wanted to smack Piper right now as badly as Kit did.

“And Piper forgot to mention it to anyone.”

“So it seems.”

“The airhead gene raises its head again.”

“I can’t get hold of Piper to confirm.”

“She’s in the Hamptons. With Trace.”

“Ah. Cell phone turned off.”

“Yep.”

“So, we’re on our own.”

“All right. This is not a disaster,” she reminded them both, sitting up straighter and pushing her glass out of the way. The word
disaster
played like a drumbeat against the inside of her skull.
Disaster, disaster, disaster.

Kit racked her brain to remember what the woman’s fantasy was. She remembered that she and Piper had laughed. The woman had wanted to be a princess for one
weekend. Piper thought every woman who stayed at Hush should feel like a princess. It was a nice marketing hook. “Are any of the suites free?”

“The Vera Wang and the Oscar de la Renta.”

“Okay. Put her in the Oscar. It’s more princessy. What’s she like?”

There was a short pause. “She’s unusual.”

“Unusual in a good way? Like eccentric? Or unusual like somebody needs to go back on their meds?”

“Um. Kind of both. She’s a stand-up comedienne. If you get my drift. I really think you need to get back here.”

“All right. I’m sorry about this Janice, and thanks. I’ll get her a host and we’ll make this work. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry indeed. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting like her dad had suggested?