Private Relations Read online

  She’s close to naked, but still wearing that sexy underwear when she comes closer and straddles my lap. Yes, I think. Finally. She undoes my tie, slips it out of my collar and then before I know what she’s got in mind, she’s putting it over my eyes and tying it behind my head.

  Kit had to stop and take a breath. She felt hot and cold chills running over her skin and grabbed at the bottle of water Piper had placed on the table and gulped.

  “No,” I say. I want to see her, but she only laughs, then she takes my hands and lets me touch her. She lets me take off her bra, and it’s killing me because I can’t see her. I feel as if I’ve known this woman forever, and that I’ve never met her. I touch her skin and feel the heat coming off her, I touch her intimate places and know she wants me. Will she let me love her? I don’t know. I’m in agony, but it’s up to her.

  When she was finished reading, Kit felt uncomfortable warmth prickling her own intimate places. She glanced up at Piper who said, “That was more than two hundred words.”

  And suddenly they were giggling like the schoolgirls they’d been when they first met.

  “I can’t believe it. He sounds so hot,” Kit said at last.

  “That made me hot,” Piper agreed.

  “So?”

  Piper considered, with her head to one side. “The stand-up comedian woman with the Cinderella scenario is more of a PG-13 fantasy.”

  “While the man’s is more in tune with the Hush concept of erotic indulgence.” Kit sighed. “The hostess doesn’t have to fulfill his fantasy, of course, but I think he’s the kind of client we want in the hotel. He’s sensual and not afraid to show it. He obviously likes women, and he has no problem giving up control.” She laughed. “I wish more men were like that.”

  Piper gazed at her for another long moment. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying.” She nodded briskly. “I think we found our first winner. Let Angela know. She’ll set it all up.”

  Kit nodded and put the entry in a red file folder. Frankly, she wanted to know what happened next in Mr. Twenty-Four’s fantasy.

  2

  PETER GARSON felt an unfamiliar weight in his belly as he punched a number into his cell. It took him a minute to recognize that he was nervous. He was standing in Grand Central Station surrounded by noise and bodies rushing about. He was meeting a client for lunch at the Oyster Bar but first, he had a call to make.

  “Well?” he asked when the woman he was calling identified herself.

  “If you hurt her again, I swear I will come after you, cut off your balls and feed them to my cat.”

  “You did it.” He leaned against one of the marble pillars sagging in relief.

  “I did it,” she said. “And you’d better be right about this.” She hung up before he could reply.

  Feeling better by the second, he strode into the Oyster Bar and found the man he was meeting sipping a gin and tonic with one solitary ice cube in it. “Am I late?” he asked, grasping Giles Pendleton’s hand as the older man rose to greet him.

  “Not at all. I was early. You look rather pleased with yourself. Are you about to sign another big client?”

  “No. I’m trying to woo a woman.”

  The older man raised his brows. “Not an impossible proposition I’d guess. You appear to be a good catch to me.”

  “Thanks, Giles. But this woman’s going to be a challenge.”

  “Why? Did you put her out of business?”

  “No. I broke her heart.”

  “How dramatic.”

  “Believe me, it was. I left her standing at the altar on our wedding day.”

  Giles slowly lowered his glass and leveled a shrewd gaze at him. “I wouldn’t have believed you to be a cad.”

  He winced at the term. Old fashioned it might be, but he couldn’t argue with the way it hit the mark. “I panicked, Giles. I was on the way to the church and somehow I missed the turning. I figured I’d turn around at the next intersection. Three states later, I realized I wasn’t going back.”

  Giles leaned back looking elegant and amused at the same time, as only the British can. “And you believe you’ve got a hope in hell with this woman?”

  “No.” He paused to order a martini for himself, then, when the waiter had left, said, “But I’ve been thinking a lot lately that I need to see her in person. To apologize.”

  “You haven’t started one of those twelve-step programs you Americans are so fond of, have you? Where you must find everyone you’ve hurt and embarrass both parties with a tearful making of amends?”

  Peter laughed in spite of himself. Giles was two decades older than he was, unimaginably rich and discreetly gay. With so little in common, he was amazed that they’d become and stayed such good friends. “No. It just feels like something I need to do.”

  Giles slipped a one-hundred-dollar bill from a slim leather wallet and placed it on the table. “A hundred says she refuses to see you.”

  Peter grinned and pushed the bill back toward his lunch companion. “I can’t take your money, Giles. The meeting’s already arranged.”

  “How poor-spirited of the lady,” Giles said, shaking his head and replacing his cash.

  “Oh, not entirely. You see, she doesn’t know she’s going to be seeing me again.”

  “Well,” said Giles, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Isn’t she in for a delightful surprise.”

  “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, Cassie hasn’t shown up yet?” Kit said into the phone. She didn’t shriek, though she was sorely tempted. “I confirmed with her this morning that she’d host our first fantasy weekend. This is an actress’s dream. She gets to be photographed, seen at all the best places. She’ll be news, not to mention that we’re paying her enough for the weekend to fund her next term in film school. What more does she want?”

  “There’s more bad news.” Helen, the front desk manager, had called Kit herself. Everyone knew how important this promotion was.

  “The hotel’s on fire?” She meant it sarcastically, but the idea held some immediate appeal. In a disaster, no one would notice that her first big event for Hush since the opening was falling flat on its face. Along with her career.

  “Your fantasy weekend winner has checked in already.”

  “Oh, great.” Compared to this, a hotel fire would be a cinch from a public relations standpoint. She checked her Happy Face watch and for once it didn’t make her happy. “He’s not due for another hour.”

  “Well, we couldn’t turn him away. Besides, he’s a cutie. If you need a volunteer to take Cassie’s place…”

  “No. Thanks. I’ve got it covered.” If only.

  She put one knee on her computer chair, hit a key to disperse the Happy Face screen saver and started hammering at the computer trying to dredge up another perfect hostess on a busy Friday afternoon.

  “How’s it going?”

  Normally, Kit was delighted to see Piper, but not right this second when her world was momentarily black and panic was knocking at the door. “Great,” she said, sticking a big fake smile on her face as she turned.

  “Excellent. Everything all ready for our fantasy bachelor?”

  Some people, Kit could lie to if she had to. It turned out that Piper was not one of them. “He’s checked in already.”

  “Wonderful. Did he and Cassie hit it off?”

  In the ensuing silence, Kit heard the hum of her computer and the sound of her own blood pressure rising. Finally she gave it up and let her shoulders slump. “She’s AWOL. Cassie’s AWOL.”

  “What?” Piper’s eyes widened and she shook her head until her hair swung, as though refusing to believe the news. “Where is she? What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I confirmed with her this morning, and then she didn’t show up. No one can get hold of her.” Kit frowned.

  “Maybe she had an accident or something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What are we going to do?” Piper rarely sounded like the spoiled rich kid she’d once been, but at the moment she did
. Kit turned in surprise, but Piper wasn’t looking at her, she was scrabbling inside her handbag.

  “I’m working on—”

  “I’m going to phone a couple of my friends right now. This is insane. What man wants a solo fantasy weekend? We’ll be the laughing stock of the city!”

  Kit watched in horror as Piper flipped open her cell. You never knew with Piper’s friends. Besides, who would be available at five o’clock on a Friday night? Unless they were social losers, or workaholics like Kit.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Mimsy. Since her last breakup, she’s been pretty down. This will cheer her up.”

  “Mimsy’s in rehab.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? She checked herself out on Wednesday. I get the feeling she’s ready to party.”

  Mimsy. God, no. The only thing worse than Mimsy right before she went into rehab was Mimsy right after she got out. Anything was better than that.

  “Put the phone away,” she said to Piper more sharply than she intended. “I already have a replacement.”

  Piper glanced up but didn’t close her phone. “Who?”

  Kit took a deep breath. “Me. As the PR director, this is my responsibility.” Besides, when she stopped steaming about Cassie, she recalled how much she’d liked the sound of this guy. Working this weekend might not be such a hardship after all.

  Piper did not appear thrilled. “But you’re not a party girl.”

  “We’re not looking for a party girl. This woman is to be a hostess and escort. An interesting and fun person who knows Manhattan.”

  “And you’re wearing that business suit for the intimate dinner tonight in the restaurant?”

  Damn it. The Times had promised to send a photographer to catch the fantasy weekend winner enjoying a sumptuous intimate dinner in Amuse Bouche. Publicity like that you couldn’t buy. “Of course not. I’ll run down to the boutique and grab something.”

  Piper nodded. “Okay, good plan.” She scanned Kit from head to toe. “You’re out on the town a lot, know everyone, get mentioned in gossip columns. It’s perfect, when you think about it.”

  “Good. I’ll go find a dress, then.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have great taste in clothes, and this is going on my expense account.”

  In one of her bold strokes of genius, Piper had hired top fashion designers to decorate the interiors of the penthouses. Of course, Piper being Piper, she’d made sure the high-end lobby boutique carried clothing from those same designers.

  “Your fantasy winner’s in the Carnaby Suite, right?” Piper said as she gazed around the boutique moments later. “Stella McCartney designed that one. Here, try this.” And with her usual crazy-like-a-fox logic, she outfitted Kit in a Stella McCartney dress.

  “There. Now you’ll match the decor.”

  “I can’t believe you’d spend that much money to make me a room accessory,” Kit said as she slipped into a swirling turquoise cocktail dress with indigo polka dots.

  “Turn, turn,” Piper said, watching critically as she obeyed. “Excellent. Shoes and bag, and we’ll be out of here.”

  The fussing didn’t end there. Piper took Kit up to her own suite and insisted on doing her makeup.

  “Stop it, I don’t wear as much makeup as you do,” Kit said, batting away a brush full of something dark that appeared headed for her eyelids.

  “Think about seeing your picture in the Times. Do you want to look washed out and tired? Which is it going to be? Gwyneth Paltrow the day after she gave birth or Gwyneth at a movie premiere?”

  “Okay, okay.” She let Piper have her way, reminding herself that the dramatic makeup would definitely show up better in any media coverage. “The sacrifices I make for you.”

  Once Piper had completed the makeup application with a deep pink lipstick, she pulled the hot rollers from Kit’s hair and brushed it out. “Gorgeous,” she said, and Kit, gazing at her own reflection in Piper’s vanity mirror, had to agree she looked…sexy.

  Piper slipped the big hotel towel from around Kit’s shoulders and handed her the bright pink clutch purse and matching shoes.

  After looking her up and down, Piper gave her a quick kiss. “You look great. Good luck!”

  “Thanks,” Kit said and headed out the door, the cocktail dress floating sexily around her.

  She’d feel guilty about wearing a small fortune if she didn’t think they’d get that much and more back in advertising value if she could get a mention about the boutique in the paper.

  Okay, so for one weekend she was acting a part in her own promotion. Things could be a lot worse. At least now, she didn’t have to worry about Cassie screwing up.

  Her smile was as carefree as possible given the stress level of its owner as she sped to the eighteenth floor and walked down the lushly carpeted hallway to the Carnaby Suite where she took a moment to take a deep breath and center herself before knocking.

  The door opened.

  “Hi,” said the attractive dark-haired man standing on the other side wearing a crisp white shirt, navy blue slacks and a tie that needed knotting.

  For a moment everything went still. She couldn’t breathe, her heart didn’t seem to beat. She couldn’t hear anything. In that instant, she was standing in her wedding gown, reliving the moment when she’d finally accepted she’d been jilted at the altar. She stared at the man she’d planned to marry. She hadn’t seen him in the three years since the night before their wedding day. Such a barrage of emotions slammed into her that she couldn’t process any of them.

  Another woman might have railed, or fainted, or kicked him in a strategic spot. Not Kit, even though she felt like doing all three. Her famous smile wobbled a little, but she hung on to it, just as she hung on to the pink clutch that started to slide out of her grip.

  “Peter,” she said. “What a surprise.”

  “Kit. It’s good to see you.” An awkward moment passed when he didn’t move back or speak but simply stared at her. She glanced at the discreet bronze plaque announcing that this was indeed the Carnaby Suite.

  So what if Peter turning out to be the winner was a cruel cosmic stroke of fate. There was no way she was going to falter in front of her ex-fiancé. After all, she had faced a ballroom filled with shrieking patrons scrambling to get out of the way of crocodiles reveling in their new-found freedom. One snake she could handle. “So, do I take it you are the lucky winner of the fantasy weekend?”

  He seemed to pull himself together with an effort. “Yes. I’m thrilled.” He stood back. “Come in.”

  “Thanks.” She was thinking fast as she stepped into the luxurious, sensuously appointed suite with the man she’d once planned to spend her life with. There was no way she could bail on dinner tonight, not with the Times photographer coming. But tomorrow, as another famously jilted woman once said, was another day.

  “I’m here to take you to dinner,” she said briskly, then raised her brows in a challenge. “Is that a problem?”

  “There’s no one I’d rather have dinner with,” he said.

  Bite me. “Fine. Anytime you’re ready to go.”

  “Look. Would you like to have a drink here first? Maybe we should talk before we go out into public together.”

  She simply looked at him and let her brows ride higher. Soon they’d take off in flight.

  He fiddled with the ends of his tie. “In case there are any hard feelings you want to get off your chest. From before.”

  “By before, I assume you mean when you left me standing at the altar on our wedding day?”

  He nodded, and she had the satisfaction of seeing a reddening above his collar that meant he was embarrassed. Damn straight.

  “Your letter of apology was nice. And the check you sent my parents more than covered the cost of the wedding. Obviously, we were too young, and not getting married was for the best. No hard feelings.”

  “I would like to explain. Or at least try.” He p
ushed a hand through his hair, making a mess of it. “I know it was unforgivable what I did but—”

  “Peter,” she interrupted him, “I don’t believe in dwelling on past mistakes. My life has turned out fine. I’m happy. Shall we go?”

  He looked confused, even a little offended. Ha! What had he expected? Tears and her heart held out for him to study the old scars? Forget it. Jabbing at old scars was likely to make them bleed again.

  “Okay,” he said and turned to the full-length mirror framed in a kaleidoscope of shards of mirror and crystal.

  She turned away so she wouldn’t have to watch Peter knot his tie. She didn’t want to witness that much intimacy. Instead, she examined the room for the slightest flaw.

  There were none.

  Give top clothing designers a crack at interior decoration and it was amazing what they came up with. The king-size bed—like all the beds in the Hush guest rooms—sported the finest mattress money could buy, but the bed linens were unique to the Carnaby. Oh, and the designer had had fun there. Multicolored circles on the duvet and a lacy bedskirt gave a sense that the bed was dressed—and meant to be undressed. The circles were picked up in the carpet that Piper had had specially made to the designer’s specs. The initial impression was playful, but it was an adult playtime that the decor evoked.

  This was Kit’s favorite of the designer penthouses—which was the reason she’d asked for it for the first fantasy weekend. The rose-colored double Jacuzzi tub in the middle of the room had a Stella McCartney-designed screen that could be pulled across for privacy, or mere coquettishness, and faced a tall window overlooking Madison Avenue. It was one-way glass, so no one could see inside the suite, but from in here it was easy to feel as though you were on display—which, according to Piper, was a powerful fantasy.

  Since Kit had sent a room attendant up here a couple of hours ahead of when their guest had been scheduled to arrive, the fireplace was already crackling beside the tub, the champagne was on ice. She knew without looking that twin luxury bathrobes hung from hooks against the wall and that a basket of the best Italian soaps and lotions sat by the tub.