Barbara Daly - You Call This Romance!?

“Oh, thank goodness.” She expelled a sigh of pure relief. “Because the Inn of Dreams advertises itself as Reno’s only no-smoking hotel. I was worried to death there for a minute.”

“Stop worrying,” Cabot said, his brows drawn together in what Faith would describe as a worried frown. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” He got up.

She really hated to see him leave. She really hated thinking she could get all this together by tomorrow. It would take more focusing than she thought she could manage, especially with the elusive scent of his aftershave lingering around her workstation, the daydreams already appearing on the margins of her mind. Daydreams of her sharing this strange, much-too-organized honeymoon and throwing it at once into spontaneous, passionate chaos.

“O-kay,” she said, feeling warm and dreamy.

His frown deepened. “You’ve got a funny look in your eyes.”

“What kind of look?” She locked away the daydreams.

“Never mind. It’s gone.” And so was he. She didn’t even let her gaze follow him to the door. She didn’t have to. She’d already memorized every nuance of his body.

IN LOS ANGELES ALONE, forget Pasadena and Malibu and all the other contiguous communities, the ratio of travel agents to customers had to be one to ten, and he’d somehow picked the one who made him look at what he did for a living and find it detestable.

Creating an image for a client, a job he was good at, could be described two ways. One was simply bringing out the best in a person.

His father had needed nothing more than some decent promotion. The guy had been a great actor. He’d provided a comfortable living for the family doing bit parts. But he’d never made it to the big time. At last he’d given up trying, ended up teaching drama at a small Midwestern college and acting with the local community theater. He was the reason Cabot had become a publicist in the first place. He’d wanted to do for actors what he wished someone had done for his father.

Nothing detestable about that.

The other way of describing image making was that you were inventing a whole new person out of lies. Tippy was invented.

Cabot realized he was chewing his nails. Twenty-five dollars for the essential executive’s manicure these days and he was chewing his nails. He needed to do something with his hands. Of course, he was driving with his hands, but in L.A. that didn’t count. He had to call Tippy, but after he’d punched her number into his car phone, he was hands-free again.

“I want to take you to dinner,” he said as soon as he’d gotten her on the line.

“Shoo-uh,” Tippy said, ending with a big popping sound. “Where? You gonna get a photographer? Get us in Variety?”

“That depends,” Cabot said mysteriously.

“Well, I got a new dress and I wanna be sure we’re going someplace worth wearing it.” She sounded cross.

“Wear it. We’re going to Spago.” The restaurant was always packed with celebrities. Incentive. That’s what he needed here. Motivation.

She cheered up right away. Of course, he also heard the ominous sound of a lighter flicking on and the whoosh of breath that meant she’d inhaled a long, satisfying drag from a cigarette.

It would not be an easy evening.

Several hours later he was seated across the table from her. Her streaky blond hair was fluffed out in a cloud that reminded him way too much of Faith’s hair and her skin had just the right degree of tan, golden and smooth. Her lipstick was pale. Her fingernails were pale, too, and perfect. She was utterly gorgeous in a dress made of two or three or—well, one too few layers of blue chiffon that made her the focal point of the entire room of beautiful people.

The waiter hovered. Cabot ordered drinks. The second they arrived, Tippy, with extraordinary grace, pulled out a cigarette and held it up expectantly.

“We’re in a no-smoking section,” Cabot said.

“What the hell were you doing putting us in the no-smoking section?” Her face was sweet. Her tone wasn’t.

“You need to get in training,” Cabot said.

“What for?” She tapped the cigarette on the table.

“For the dry run. We’re booked into a no-smoking hotel.”

“So switch hotels.”

“Can’t. They’re all full. It’s the weekend before Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, screw ’em,” Tippy said. “Put on the pressure. Pay somebody a little cash under the table.” Her face was still sweet. She really was one great actress. Only Cabot could see the tic starting to twitch in the corner of her left eye.

“I’m working with a travel agent,” Cabot said. “I don’t think she’s the put-on-the-pressure, a-little-cash-under-the-table kind of person.”

“Screw her too.” She punctuated each word with a jab of her swizzle stick, the one that had come with her extra-dry straight-up martini and had once had olives impaled on it.

Cabot felt a hard red flush of anger rising to his face and squelched it by sheer strength of will. “You don’t want to do that. She’s one of your biggest fans.”

“She is?” Sudden interest gleamed in the baby blues.

“Absolutely. She sees you as the saint, the martyr you played in Kiss. Now Tippy,” he said indulgently, “a big part of my job is to establish your image in the media minds. Your job is to maintain that image. Have I got this right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, this travel agent believes in your image. She booked the no-smoking hotel by accident, I think.” Here Cabot paused for a moment, reflecting that Faith Sumner probably did a good many things by accident. “She’d be deeply, deeply disappointed in you if I told her you couldn’t make this one little sacrifice, not smoking for a weekend. You might lose a fan. You can’t afford to lose a fan. Not even one.” This was a subtle reminder that she hadn’t made it to the big time yet. There was still room for a little humility, a little accommodation.

She contemplated him coolly, never losing the sweet smile. “I think you got a little thing for this travel agent,” she said.

The color rose again to Cabot’s face. “Absolutely—”

“You’re not thinkin’ about backin’ out on me, are you? Like Josh?”

“—not. I’ve made a commitment…to your career.” He added after a brief hesitation, “And I intend to follow through on it.”

“That’s a promise.”

“Yes.”

“Scout’s honor?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She gazed at him. “Okay, then.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay, keep the friggin’ no-smokin’ hotel.”

“Thanks,” Cabot said gratefully. “I promise you we’ll have a decent time. I’ll stock the room with chocolates and—”

“Whaddya mean ‘we’?”

“Pardon?”

“If you think for one minute I’m goin’ on that dry run with you you’re dumber than I figured. Not smoke for a whole weekend? Fageddaboudit.”

“Tippy…” Cabot looked up to see a waiter hovering over them. “Salads,” he said, “one Caesar, one Cobb, and bring me the wine list. No, just bring us a bottle of something. I don’t suppose you have any hemlock stashed away in the back.”

“Is that a California, sir, or a French…”

“He was kidding,” Tippy said, melting the waiter with a long, long look, then turning the look on Cabot.

It didn’t faze him. He glared at her from across the table. “You expect me to do the dry run alone? Pose for the video by myself?”

“You’d look precious in my going-away suit,” Tippy said, “but no, this is the movies, baby. You take a double.”

SO HERE HE WAS AGAIN, back at Wycoff Worldwide and feeling like a fool. But this time, what he had to do wasn’t the kind of thing you could do on the phone.