Barbara Daly - You Call This Romance!?

Faith simply sat down at her desk and gazed at him with a peculiar light in her eyes. So he sat down, too.

“When did you get here?” she asked testily.

“Eight fifty-seven.”

“Were they already here?” She gestured around the room at the other agents.

“No, they all sort of appeared at once just as that guy unlocked the door.”

“How do they do it?” Her expression pleaded with him to understand. “How do they get here exactly at nine, not a minute early, not a minute late? I swear some alien power beams them to the front door.”

“You were only one minute late.” He didn’t know where his forgiving attitude had come from. He supposed it was coming straight from his groin, which still hadn’t stopped acting hopeful.

“When I’m one minute late they’re all standing in the center of the waiting area staring at me when I come in.” Her shoulders drooped.

She was wearing mascara, but only on one set of blond lashes, and her lipstick, something pale pink and shiny, was crooked. He was fascinated, but he couldn’t let on.

“I don’t care,” he said gruffly. “Here’s my problem.”

“Oh, yes,” she said, “your problem.” She whirled and reached down to her computer. After she’d pushed several wrong buttons, she finally got the right one and the monitor began to show signs of life. Next she reached into her handbag, fished around, began hauling things out—a wrench, a sandwich, a paper-clipped bundle of coupons, a tube of stain remover, a romance novel—and eventually pulled out a diskette in an ordinary white envelope. “Got it,” she said, waving it at him before she tried to jam it into the CD slot, then into the Zip drive slot and at last, with only the one alternative remaining, slid it smoothly into the A drive.

He waited, tapping one finger on the arm of his chair, trying not to notice the tilt of her perfect little nose, her pale, creamy skin, her small, slender hands as they wreaked their havoc.

She turned back to him, looking triumphant. “Now,” she said. “You mentioned a change of plans.”

“Yes. Don’t make the July reservations yet.”

“No? Are you sure?” Her voice softened. So did her face.

“Yes. Make them for the second weekend in February.”

Inexplicably, her face fell. “Of course. Certainly. If I can get reservations. You’re, ah, moving the wedding back? Oh,” she sighed as a calendar mysteriously appeared on the monitor, “that’s the weekend before Valentine’s Day! Instead of skyrockets, you’re going for hearts and fl—”

“No,” he interrupted her. “I’m doing a dry run.”

“A dry run. Of your honeymoon.”

“Anything wrong with that?”

Faith could think of about a million things wrong with that. She considered listing them. Then she considered the new muffler she needed and the funny way her car sounded when she put on the brakes. Her final consideration was the most important. This was her thirteenth job since she’d finished undergraduate school with a degree in languages and no skills beyond French, Spanish and Italian. She had to make this one last.

“Of course not,” she said smoothly.

“Okay. So book me a honeymoon suite for the nights of the eighth through the tenth.”

She hesitated. “It may not be easy so close to Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t anticipate trouble.” That impatient growl again.

Something about his voice sent her whirling to the screen. “The hotel I’ve chosen…” she began.

“Just make the reservation.”

Silently, feeling oddly sulky, Faith punched at the keyboard, moved the mouse around on a mousepad that had the word Focus! printed on it in capital letters. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but they’re fully booked for…Oops!” Startled, she drew back. “Somebody just broke up.” A slot, in fact a deluxe theme suite, had opened up before her very eyes. “Our most popular theme room,” they described it on the Web site. She cast a sideways glance at Cabot, feeling he’d somehow done it himself, broken up a couple who had a reservation in his hotel for his room.

“So grab it!” He was half out of his chair, reaching for the mouse.

She grabbed it.

He heaved such a sigh she was sure he was wondering what error in his otherwise impeccable judgment had led him to walk up to her workstation yesterday when all around them automatons were chatting with contented-looking clients while quietly doing everything perfectly, serene, unharried smiles painted on their faces.

With the room safely booked, she asked him, “Shall I reserve a wedding chapel in Reno?”

“No.” He growled the word. “I don’t intend to be married by Elvis.”

“That’s more of a Las Vegas thing,” Faith explained.

“The answer’s still no. The ceremony will be here and we’ll fly to Reno. I’ll need two limos from the Little Chapel in the Pines to LAX and two waiting at the Reno-Tahoe airport.”

“One for each of you?” It came out like a squeak.

Another sigh. “No, one for the crew.”

“Oh, yes, the crew.” It wasn’t her place to tell Cabot Drennan she thought his honeymoon plans sounded less than romantic. She went to the Web site of her favorite limousine service, the one with plenty of long, long, white, white cars, which they decorated with flowers when they carried a wedding party.

She frowned. Flowers that would freeze if they had to drive over any mountain passes between the airport and Reno. Maybe they used fake in February. Maybe they used fake all the time. How would she know? She’d never ridden in one.

“What are you thinking about besides my limos?”

She turned to confront his accusing glare. “Fake flowers,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Good idea,” he said. “Tell the limo service I want them to cover the lead car in fake flowers.”

“No problem.” They’d love it.

“Then look up the restaurants in the area and choose five of them.”

“Five?” She couldn’t help herself.

“Two lunches, three dinners. And limos to take us. No flowers.”

“Oh.” She turned to him, wondering if she was doing the right thing. “The hotel features twenty-four-hour room service.”

“That’s very interesting information. Now book the five restaurants.”

“Won’t you at least want breakfast in bed?” She was feeling sorrier for Tippy Temple’s raging hormones by the minute. She knew Tippy Temple’s hormones had to be raging at the prospect of being Cabot’s bride, because her own hormones were raging just sitting across from him watching him glower at her.

“Okay. Breakfast in the room. After the hairdresser and manicurist leave. Book one of each every morning at seven.”

A night with Cabot Drennan could certainly mess a woman up. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine a night with Cabot Drennan would end at seven in the morning.

“Coming right up. How about a massage?”

“Too time-consuming. And I wouldn’t want to film it.”

“It might relax both of you.”

“We’re already relaxed,” he said tightly. “No massage.”

She sighed. “I’ll get to work on the restaurants.”

“Nothing exotic. Tippy’s a salad girl. Meat, potatoes, salad, good wine list. And a bar,” he added, sounding glum about the prospect even as he specified it. “We need a smoking section.”

“Tippy smokes?” An uneasy feeling slid through her body. She remembered reading something about…When Cabot hesitated, she moved the mouse around and found what she was looking for. Her uneasiness intensified.

“No,” he said finally. “I might want an occasional cigar. Or somebody in the film industry might join us for dinner. You know. Just covering all the bases.”