Barbara Daly - You Call This Romance!?

She could see the exasperation in the lines around his mouth. “We’ll break with tradition. I will definitely—”

He whirled and went back to the desk clerk. They all followed him like baby ducks. “You must have an extra single room somewhere,” he said.

The desk clerk wore the look of an about-to-be-discovered movie star. “In Carson City, maybe,” he drawled.

Cabot gave up. “Okay. Fine. Show us to our rooms.”

The look he gave Faith started out as a withering one. He wasn’t sure how it turned out.

“SO WE’LL SEE YOU GUYS LATER,” Cabot told the crew.

“Nope, you’ll see us now,” Raff informed him. “We have to work on the ‘carry over the threshold’ scene.”

Faith supposed you couldn’t expect a professional video-making crew to put romance into what was, for them, a livelihood. For her, too, she reminded herself swiftly. She’d better be thinking of it as the “carry over the threshold” scene, too.

Cabot’s mouth was set in a grim line. She was sure he’d rather drop her over a cliff right this minute than carry her over a threshold.

“Okay, then, follow us up.” He went from annoyance to resignation in a split second.

They were pretty noticeable, Faith thought, the five of them trotting along behind a bellhop dressed the way bellhops dressed in the old movies, when they delivered luggage to gorgeous women in blue satin dressing gowns.

Raff the cameraman was loading his gun, so to speak, Joey was making darts and dashes at her with a makeup pencil, trying to correct her eyebrow line on the run without destroying her vision and Chelsea was screwing lights into sockets, while she struggled not to trip over tripods that kept opening of their own accord.

“Here we are, folks,” sang the bellhop. “Try to get my left side,” he said sotto voce to Raff as he flung open the door of the suite.

“Da-dum! Welcome to the Tahoe Jungle Suite!”

“Ah-h-h,” Faith moaned.

“Me Tarzan,” Cabot muttered.

The five of them hovered outside the door of the suite. “I can’t go in until I’ve had some food,” Joey said.

“I’m not going in without hip waders,” Raff said. “The bride and groom can test the waters while we set up for the shoot.”

Cabot still didn’t move any farther into the room, so neither did Faith. She was not Jane, and she was afraid to try it alone. Something might drop down from the ceiling, like an anaconda.

The Tahoe Jungle Suite was the realization of a decorator’s worst nightmare. Vines twisted up the walls and across the ceiling to form a canopy over a jungle of large-leaf plants, plants with a shine that said, “Plastic!” The “suite” was really one large room, and in the seating area, hammocks replaced sofas. The hammocks were fitted with pads covered in tiger-print satin fabric. The end tables and the coffee tables resembled sections of tree trunk. Plastic tree trunk. With round Lucite tops.

Faith focused on the bed. Enormous, resting on a platform painted to look like a rock ledge, it was the focal point of the room. The base was made of twisted boughs. Plastic boughs, of course. More animal prints—leopard, zebra, cheetah—covered the duvet, the many pillows. It looked like there’d been a massacre of endangered species.

She looked back to find Cabot staring at a hammock. Imagining himself there, maybe.

“I didn’t ask what the room theme was,” Faith said limply. “I thought hearts and flowers.”

The bellhop gave her a you’re-not-from-around-here-are-you look. “This is the weekend before Valentine’s Day,” he said. “The hearts and flowers were booked fifteen months ago. The rest of the year, this is our most popular suite.” He did another sweep with his arm. “You have your visual effects,” he said dramatically, “and your audio effects!” He pushed a wall switch and the space resonated with the caws of tropical birds, insect twirps, a distant waterfall and a swishing sound that Faith decided was probably the anaconda waiting patiently to pounce.

“Really gives the place character,” the bellhop said. He nodded with satisfaction, and his tall, boxy hat bounced on his head.

“It does do that,” Cabot said.

Faith couldn’t bring herself to look at him. He had to be dying from sheer disgust. It was too much to hope he might be dying to laugh.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” Faith said.

“Yes, it is,” Cabot said. “Tippy will like the ambiance. You ready out there, guys?”

“Ready as we’ll ever be,” Raff called back.

“It’s show time, folks,” Cabot said. “Hold on a minute. I want to splash some water on my face first.”

The next thing she heard was a roll of thunder, a crackle of lightning and a sound from Cabot that, if his voice weren’t so masculine, she might have called a scream. As the waiting crew muttered curses and flung down their equipment to dash to the rescue, the bathroom door opened. Cabot emerged, water dripping from his hair and clothes, clutching a leopard-print towel.

“I guess that wasn’t the light switch after all,” he said, deadly calm.

“It was your rain-forest effects,” Faith said.

He stared at his crew for a long, silent moment. “We’ll ‘cross the threshold’ tomorrow,” he said in the same overly calm voice. “When the rainy season has passed.” He slammed the door in their startled faces.

He glared at her, then turned his back and opened his suitcase. She gazed at his back, watching the elegant, black, soaking-wet suit crumple up, then opened her own large bag the bellhop had positioned on a luggage rack.

“When’s dinner?” Cabot said, pulling things out of his suitcase and depositing them in a zebra-striped dresser.

“We have an eight-o’clock reservation,” she said, hoping she’d remembered right.

“We have to stay here until eight?” There was an edge of panic in his voice.

She could understand the panic. She couldn’t wait to get out of this place herself.

“It will be eight by the time we’ve unpacked and freshened up and…” It hit her like brand-new information that she was sharing the Tahoe Jungle Suite with a man she found almost irresistible. “And it will be time for dinner before you know it. Cabot…”

“What?” he said, sounding impatient as he unzipped a leather bag and pulled interesting-looking items out of it. Socks, underwear, turtlenecks…

Faith accepted the sad but true fact that everything about Cabot interested her, even his underwear. “I realize this isn’t the mood you want for your honeymoon,” she said. “By July the demand for hearts and flowers will slow down, and I’m sure I can—”

“I already said,” he answered her, bent over a suitcase, “Tippy will like it just fine.”

This time the familiar words didn’t annoy her. She felt sympathetic, amused, willing to educate him. He didn’t have a clue as to what a woman would like. Except that the woman would like him. What woman could keep herself from liking him. Wanting him. Loving him. Giving herself to him…

“I’ll confirm the reservation,” she said, and hastily involved herself in her unpacking.

Makeup and toiletries, the beautiful outfits with their matching shoes and handbags, belts, chiffon scarves, pashmina stoles. Jewelry—stunning, fake, and, Cabot had told her, borrowed. The pale-blue dressing gown. With shaking fingers she scrambled through the bags, unzipping pockets and ripping open Velcro cubbyholes before finally giving up the search.

That thing that had been niggling at her as she was leaving town—now she knew what it was. She’d forgotten to bring a stitch of underwear.