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JJ considered his picture. “I bet he seethes with inner heat.”
“I doubt it. Can’t you see? He’s so cut off from his emotions he wouldn’t know lust if it gave him a lap dance.”
“You have quite the opinion there.” JJ gave her a speculative look and tapped a nail on her bottom lip.
Kathleen had overstated the case. “The point is that I’m not interested in him—as a man or as a mate on the Good Ship Book Tour.”
JJ and her instincts honed in on Kathleen’s face.
To avoid detection, she pretended to sniff the flowers, inhaling the cool green of the carnations, the thick syrup of the sweet peas, the dense musk of the roses. Flowers packed a lovely sensory wallop.
“What’s up?” JJ said. “Do you see him as a threat?”
“How could I? He’s completely wrong.”
“So, show him the error of his ways. It’ll be an experience. Experience is your whole modus operandi.”
“Now you’re giving me Latin?” she said, though JJ was right about her focus on experience. Her column in PulsePoint magazine, which had launched her career, had been called “Experience It!”
In it, she shared her views and adventures with all things sensual—food, music, art, fashion, recreation and sex. If it felt good, she’d done it…and written about it in dripping detail.
In love with the column, JJ had sought her out as a client. With JJ’s bulldog support Kathleen had zoomed to the top of the bestseller lists with her first book. Also the second. The third had wilted. And the fourth, unwritten, was in limbo. Was she bored? Burned out? Had she exhausted her topic? Her life? She refused to believe that.
“The point is that he’s a streaming comet, book-wise, Kath. Hook your cart to his tail and tag along for the sky ride.”
“Does he know about this?” Kathleen said, seizing on the hope that Dan would nix the plan from his end. She’d been the dumpee, so he’d be more embarrassed than freaked about seeing her again. He hated interpersonal tension, though, so he would surely dread the reunion. “I can’t imagine he’d want me to steal his thunder.”
“His agent said he was hesitant at first, but, being new, he didn’t understand how important a tour is in terms of publisher support.”
Hesitant, huh? She wished she’d seen his face when he heard the news. Even the Ice Man must have gasped. He obviously hadn’t revealed their past or JJ would have said something. What would people think if they knew Dr. Moderate had had an earth-scorching affair with the Queen of Excess?
For that matter, what would Dan have to say for himself after all these years? She was curious, now that she thought about it.
Then she caught herself. This was Dan. She didn’t want to face him again. “I can’t do it, JJ. Dr. McAlister and I are anathema to each other.”
“Anathema? You mean where Disneyland is? I can’t believe you’d make fun of my Latin, little miss word-a-day. Your anathema-ism is the very reason they want you. Reporters love conflict. Two appealing experts at polar extremes? What could be more delicious?”
“A million things. Can’t happen. No way.”
But JJ didn’t flinch, didn’t even shake the lengthy ash from her cigarette, and her eyes said, Yes, way. “After the lag, this is a gift, Kath. You need this.”
“What I need is a writing retreat. No phone, no Internet. Just a laptop and the beach house at Gualala.” But the idea gave her a desolate feeling, as if her writer’s heart had been swept as clear of ideas as a beach at low tide.
“You’ve been there, done that and come up with bupkis.”
“So, I need a little more time,” she bluffed.
“No point arguing.” JJ finally tapped the snake of ash into her palm and leveled Kathleen a look. “It’s happening.”
“It is?”
“It is.” JJ sucked in smoke, blew it out. That meant Herman Maxwell, her publisher, had spoken.
She swallowed hard. “I’m sunk?”
“Sinking. But we’ll turn this around.” JJ picked up her gold cigarette case, opened it and tilted it at Kathleen, as if for sustenance.
Kathleen waved it away. Things were really bad if JJ was offering her a smoke—like a prisoner before a firing squad. Which didn’t feel that far wrong.
“You need to shake things up, Kathleen. This will do that.”
Oh, yes. Dan McAlister could shake her up, all right.
She took a deep breath, gathering her strength, her determination, her sense of humor. If she had to do this tour, and it looked as though she did, then she’d make it work. Meet Dan head-on and not miss a step.
That would not be easy, since she was no poker player when it came to emotions, but she’d manage. She had too much pride to do otherwise.
At least she knew she wouldn’t be attracted to him. She’d learned her lesson. Repressed guys were way too much work when there were so many available sensualists in the world. She had a lovely romantic life. Well, except for the odd emptiness that had crept into her lately. But she wouldn’t think about that now.
She had enough on her mind, what with her blocked writing, her possibly sinking career and being forced to spend ten days in close quarters with the man who’d delivered her one and only broken heart.
Dr. Anathema himself.
2
HIS AGENT had declared it a coup, but Dan McAlister wasn’t happy about this book tour with Kathleen Dubinofsky. Make that Valentine. She’d changed her name. Probably for her career, but maybe just for fun, knowing Kathleen. Kathleen had fun built into her soul. And whimsy. For Kathleen, anything worth doing was worth overdoing.
But Valentine? That was kind of silly. When he’d known her, she’d wrung every ounce of delight out of every moment, but she’d never been silly.
He checked out the view from the window of his New York hotel room. This place, world-famous for its luxury, had no doubt been selected with Kathleen in mind, since she’d built a career out of her passion for extravagance. Smart of her, really, to turn her inclinations into a source of income. He’d always admired her savvy, her directness, her purposefulness, even when she was making him nuts.
And now she was famous enough that his publisher wanted her on his book tour.
He became aware that his heart was racing again. Every time he thought about her, his system flooded with adrenaline. Being with Kathleen had brought him face-to-face with a side of his character he disliked—his wild side—and which he’d successfully wrestled to the ground. Just thinking her name brought it all back.
They were to meet their agents and his publisher’s publicist for dinner in two hours, but he wanted to speak to her privately first, confirm what they’d agreed upon via an e-mail—that they’d keep their past a secret.
She’d sent a quick reply. “The irony of our relationship would certainly detract from our credibility.” The oddly dispassionate words made him wonder if she’d changed from when he knew her. She’d always been fiery and outspoken. The irony of their relationship? Even he, whom she’d called Ice Man, wouldn’t use that word to describe their affair. Wrenching and life-altering maybe, but never ironic.
He hadn’t been crazy about the book tour even before he’d heard Kathleen would be with him—too much fuss and hassle—but his agent insisted it would build “buzz,” whatever that was. So, he’d agreed. If he gained more readers, reached more people with the ideas that had saved him and helped so many of his clients, then it was worth every bit of awkward embarrassment.
In his practice, he specialized in overcoming self-defeating patterns, and he found it extremely rewarding. He’d developed checklists that allowed his clients to analyze the sources of immoderation in their lives, along with willpower boosters and self-control builders—tools with which to reshape their behavior in more positive directions.
Grateful clients had urged him to write a book, and over the past two years he’d done so. He’d been honored when first an agent, then a top publisher had seen the value of his work. Publishing The Magic of Moderation was an opportunity to reach more people with his ideas. Fame made him uncomfortable, but it was a means to an important end.
Then he’d learned about Kathleen and the world had shuddered to a stop for a while. He knew about her work, had even bought her first book, but seeing her was the last thing he’d expected. Or wanted.
The e-mail exchange had been too impersonal and brief. He had to see her, get the first meeting over without witnesses. They were adults, of course, and college was a decade ago, but their relationship had reverberated through his life and he wasn’t sure how normally he could act around her.
Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.
He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.
Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.
These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.
Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.
“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.
“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.
The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.
The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.
This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.
Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.
An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.
Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old abruptly swimming in an adult’s baggy suit and grown-up life.
“Dan!”
He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen—naked, dripping and shocked. Embarrassment shot across her face, but she banished that with a sharp smile. She’d always pushed through awkward moments with bravado. She gave a light laugh that squeaked at the end, betraying her distress.
Heat and ice washed through him at the sight of her body, just as she’d appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all—her round, high breasts, pink nipples and that triangle of hair, golden against her pale skin. At least his mortification had iced down his erection. With his back turned, he explained himself. “I came in with the waiter. I called, but you must not have heard me. I’ll let you get dressed.” He started for the door.
“Don’t go. It’s fine.” She had the same husky voice—a whiskey voice in the vernacular of detective novels—and it warmed him like a quick shot. “I thought you were my agent JJ. I just popped out for my robe.”
He stayed with his back to her while a suitcase zipper scraped, a clasp rattled and fabric rustled.
“There. All covered, Dan,” she said, sounding amused.
He turned and found her wrapped in a black silk robe that clung to her breasts and ended high on her thighs. She was a voluptuous woman with a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s, except she was taller. She was a presence, a gathering of female energy that drew male eyes wherever she went.
He had the familiar impulse to touch—her skin, her silk-covered breasts, her shiny golden hair, loosely swept up on her head. Completely insane, of course. But the way he felt about Kathleen had never made much sense.
“I just wanted to touch…base…before we officially got together.” He felt himself redden.
“Good idea,” she said, her eyes restless on his face, then gone. That wasn’t like her. She’d always contemplated him carefully, soaking up every detail, every reaction.
He held out his hand to shake—as stupid as that seemed.
“Oh, please.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around him. But she held her body away from his and kissed the air beside his cheek—a gesture for show.
He was relieved. And stupidly disappointed.
She moved to a sofa thick with overstuffed pillows and patted a spot beside her. “Let’s talk. We’ve got time before JJ gets here. She’s always late. Just like me.” She laughed nervously again, which made him want to say something reassuring.
“You look the same. Beautiful as ever.”
“You look good, too. Losing the glasses was a good decision.”
“Thanks. They got in my way.” He was preoccupied with trying not to look at the curve of one breast visible through a gap in her robe. She had great breasts. A firm handful with nipples that had tightened into plump knots whenever he touched them. She’d loved him to spend time there. He’d loved it, too. What was not to love?
He moved his gaze, only to have it sink to the dark space between her legs, where the hem of her robe separated. Control yourself, man. “Why don’t you get dressed? I can wait.”
“No, no. I’ve got time,” she said, “Unless I’m making you uncomfortable…?” She was acting cool, sliding a red-painted nail along the edge of her robe, but the finger trembled and her breath was shaky and she still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.
“If you’re fine, I’m fine,” he said, determined to manage his reactions. Her toenails matched her fingernails, he noted inanely, watching as she curled her toes around the edge of the table’s glass.
“How about some champagne? I was going to drink it with JJ, but she won’t mind if we get started. This is a kind of celebration, after all. The first time we’ve seen each other in, what, ten years?” She jerked the champagne bottle brusquely from the bucket, spilling ice on the floor, betraying her nervousness. This was new, too. Above all else, Kathleen had always been confident.
With her so jittery, he couldn’t refuse the drink. “Sure. For old time’s sake.” He leaned forward to help her hold the bottle that was now shaking in her hands.
“This is so symbolic,” she said. “We’ve taken different paths and now, ten years later, they’ve converged.” She popped the cork and her green eyes jumped at the sound. “Seems like kismet.”
He smiled. Or karma. A chance to make up for hurting her. He watched her pour the liquid into two tall, elaborate glasses.
“Don’t you just love these flutes? Hotels use those terrible saucers that allow the bubbles to zip away. I travel with these.” She was obviously chattering out of that nervousness.
“Very beautiful,” he said, feeling protective of her.
“Aren’t they?” She admired her brimming glass. “Made from a single piece of blown glass in a little shop in Italy. Perfect weight and balance. Just holding one of these makes me feel better.” She did seem calmer and she gave him the glory of one of her open smiles. This one almost lit her eyes, but not quite.
“To us,” she said, extending her glass. “To the past…which shall remain our dark secret.” She regarded him over the bubbles that misted above the rim. What did she want? She used to grab him with a look. He should be beyond that now, but he felt the tug like pain in a phantom limb.
I’ve missed you. The words formed in his head, but there was no point in saying them. It would just make things more awkward. “To the next two weeks.” He intended to tap her glass with his, but instead their fingers bumped.
Her eyes widened, and he felt a surge of heat, which he attempted to douse with a quick swallow of champagne. The stuff tasted almost otherworldly. Kathleen had that power over things. When they were at Arizona State together, she used to make every moment a celebration. Mimosas for the first sweet blast of citrus blossoms in March, a desert walk after every rain, marshmallows toasted in a chimnea for the first winter chill, the entire apartment filled with candles for something called Candlemas, homemade brownies—complete with a whipped-cream fight—for the end of finals.
She arranged every detail to intensify the moment, to make everything seem more significant than it was. He’d asked her about the source of that inclination—were her parents so celebratory? It’s just me was all she would say. But there was more to the story, he knew. With Kathleen, there always was.
“So, what do you think?” she asked him, playful now.
“I think it’s great you’ve done so well.”
“I meant the champagne. But thanks. I’ve been lucky.”
“It’s very nice. Very pink.”
“Exceptional, really. The tiny bubbles are the mark of a fine champagne. This one’s been fermented slowly in wood for a fuller bouquet, allowing the pinot to turn it rosé. It’s a myth that rosé champagne is sweet. This is a brut, which I prefer. You?”
“Champagne’s your drink, Kathleen. What did you used to say? ‘I am drinking stars’?”
