Jo Leigh - Scent of a Woman

“Have you talked to her lately? She’s being very odd.”

“How can you tell?”

Katy giggled. “Odd for her. She’s doing something tonight, but she won’t say what.”

“Huh.” Lee put her spoon down and took a big swig of milk. She shuddered a bit, not ever having been a big milk fan. But she’d do anything for her baby. Her hand went protectively to her stomach.

“You think it’s something about Larry?”

“I don’t know.” Katy ate a delicate piece of arugula, splashed with a hint of balsamic vinegar.

Lee frowned with disgust. Pregnant women were supposed to have cravings for weird things. Sweet things. Not arugula, for heaven’s sake. “It’s probably nothing,” she said, remembering about Susan.

“Yeah? When’s the last time she tried to keep a secret from us?”

Lee didn’t have to think long. “That time she was dating that guy. That poet.”

Katy’s right brow rose.

“You think she’s seeing someone?”

“Well…”

“God, remember how awful he was? It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t written such terrible poetry.”

“Or if he hadn’t been so damn proud of his abject poverty.”

“Or if he hadn’t had a face like a fireplug.”

Lee grinned. “We’re horrible.”

“No. We’re gossips. He was horrible.”

“She got over him quickly enough.”

“One date was too many.”

Lee went back to her dessert. “So you think she’s found another one?”

“Maybe. She did promise to give the love thing another try. Although, I’m not convinced she’s completely ready.”

“Think we should press her?”

“Not yet,” Katy said, after a moment. “It may just be a one-time thing—an experiment or something. If that’s the case, there’s no need to worry.”

“Where Susan is concerned there’s always need to worry.”

“I know. Especially lately. She’s been down.”

Lee nodded. “I think she’s feeling left out.”

Katy’s hand went to her tummy. “Yeah.”

“So I don’t want to, you know.”

“Right.” Katy took another bite of salad. “We’ll let it go. See what happens.”

“Keep our ears open.”

“And call her first thing tomorrow morning.”

Lee nodded. Then the crème brûlée captured her attention until the very last bite.

DAVID WALKED DOWN Club Row, 44th Street, in Midtown Manhattan. He knew the street well, mostly because of the Bar Association headquarters, but also from going to the theater. His breath came out in sharp puffs of condensed air, and when he inhaled, it was cold enough to sting. But it wasn’t snowing, and the bitter weather wasn’t severe enough to keep most intrepid New Yorkers at home.

He stopped outside The Versailles. The beautiful old hotel with its green and brown awnings. He tried to remember the name of the hotel that was here before. As soon as he stepped into the lobby the question vanished, replaced by the thoughts that had plagued him most of the day.

What was he doing here? Aside from the fact that he hadn’t made love in an uncomfortably long time. And that the woman in question was stunning and mysterious and bold. And that she’d asked him.

He walked slowly through the inviting lobby with its teakwood paneling, marble floors, and clusters of oversized velvety furniture. The hotel wasn’t big, not near the size of say The Plaza, but it screamed wealth.

It said something about the woman that she’d chosen this place. A certain sophistication. A certain pocketbook. Or not. Oh, for God’s sake, who cared? He wasn’t here to discuss the architecture or the guests. At least he hoped not.

He stopped and glanced at his watch. One minute early. All he had to do was turn left and walk into the bar. She’d either be waiting for him, or she wouldn’t. He wasn’t at all sure which outcome he preferred.

After raking a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, squaring his shoulders—he exhaled, then cursed himself for a fool. What had happened to him? Had be become so old that he couldn’t walk into a bar to pursue what might be an extraordinary adventure? In college, he’d been a madman. Yes, he’d studied, but that wasn’t the thing. He’d explored. He’d dared. He’d fallen flat on his face.

But it hadn’t mattered. He’d wanted all life had to offer back then. What did he want now? Safety? Security? Yes. But that was the white bread of life. He also wanted spice. Heat. Daring. Dammit, he wanted Tabasco sauce, and plenty of it.

He turned left and started walking. What the hell. The worst that could happen was… Hmm. He had no idea what the worst was. But he could clearly imagine the best.

SUSAN LIFTED HER MARTINI to her lips, pleased that her hand barely trembled. Inside, she was a mess. Scared wasn’t the half of it. But on the outside, in the tradition of her mother and her grandmother, she was cool, calm, collected. It was a hard-won skill, but she’d had a lot of practice.

Her mother had told her over and over that emotions had no place on the negotiation table. And what was the whole man/woman thing but negotiation?

This was her party. She’d extended the invitation, prepared the room, including the party favors, and now, it was up to her to make certain everything went according to plan. No problem. Except perhaps for one detail: she had no idea what she was going to do with Mr. Gorgeous once she got him upstairs.

He’d expect her to sleep with him, but was that what she wanted? A brief, sweaty interlude on a cold winter’s night?

Maybe.

But something told her that she’d be cheating both of them by jumping right into bed. The man, God, how could she not know his name, had something special about him. Nothing she could pinpoint. Not his looks. Something in his eyes, in the way he smiled. She remembered that smile perfectly—how his teeth were very white, but not perfectly even. The small flaw made him infinitely more appealing, although she wasn’t sure why.

The music from the bookstore spun in her head, and with it came an idea. A way to make tonight perfect. Scheherazade. She was the answer. Susan smiled as the evening unfolded in her mind’s eye. It would be lovely. If he went along with her.

Another sip of the cold drink as she looked around the bar. It was very small as far as hotel bars went. But it was comfortable with its dark oak and wine leather booths. This was her turf. Nothing could go wrong here, not in the serious sense. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She could be stood up. Humiliated.

She ran a hand down her dress and forced herself to steer clear of those thoughts. She should have worn the black Prada. No. This one was better. Simpler. A wave of nervous tension hit her in the stomach. Oh, jeez, what if she threw up all over him? What if her plan was foolish and awkward?

This was a serious mistake. Sure, she’d felt reckless, restless, but this was taking things too far. She’d leave, and forget she’d ever thought of such a crazy—

“Hello.”

Susan jerked up to see Mr. Gorgeous not two feet away. Holy… She had to struggle to keep the expression out of her face. It would blow everything all to hell if he knew that her heart thumped against her chest as if it was trying to get out. “Hello,” she said back, thankful for all the years she’d practiced being a bitch. She had the exact right tone. Low, sexy, in charge.

He smiled, held out his hand. “David.”

“Su—”

“Sue?”

She nodded. “For now.”

“Not Scheherazade?”

She slipped her hand into his, and when he closed his fingers, she felt herself slide another inch down the long treacherous slope of pure insanity. “No. But there are similarities.”

David held on to her hand while his left brow arched. “Is the King of Persia bothering you again? Because I’ve told him time and time again—”