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“What!” said Faith as the palm trees folded. “Oh, Mr. Wycoff! Was there something you wanted?”
“A travel agent. That’s what I wanted, Miss Sumner. Not Sleeping Beauty.”
“Why, thank you,” Faith said, feeling herself blush a little, “but I was certainly not sleeping. I was concentrating intently on the many details of Mr. and Mrs. Mulden’s trip to the Cayman Islands. There are, as you know, many details, numerous, important details to fill in.” Don’t apologize, her younger sister Hope had told her. Be assertive.
“You were obviously daydreaming,” said Mr. Wycoff, looking down his stubby nose at her, “and the Muldens are expecting you to have finalized these many, numerous, important details by five this afternoon.”
“And that’s exactly what I will have done,” said Faith. Whirling to the computer, she saw the screen saver her youngest sister Charity had custom-designed for her. Words moved across the monitor in waves: Focus, Faith. Focus, Faith. She wiggled the mouse and was thrilled to see that it was the Muldens’ file that appeared on the screen. “Hotel confirmation number,” she murmured, stabbing at the keyboard. Mr. Wycoff strode back to his private office. “Bicycle rental confirmation number. Boat trip to…”
He waited for her on the shore, his legs apart and his arms folded over his chest, his darkly tanned body massive and virile in snug black swim briefs that left no doubt that his desire equaled, even surmounted, hers. She moved toward him slowly, the saltwater sliding off her slickly oiled skin in sheets, and his gaze roamed her shamelessly, bringing a hot flush to her face and a tingling sensation between her thighs that intensified with every step. They were face to face. She reached into the waiting picnic basket and pulled out the cut-glass dish filled with luscious tropical fruit.
Fresh pineapple, dripping golden juice, slippery wedges of deliciously scented mango, long, thin slices of papaya garnished with slivers of fresh lime and mint leaves.
“A bite of pineapple,” she murmured, “to cool off those hot eyes of yours.”
“Nothing beats a great pineapple, but not now.”
Faith shrieked, leaped straight up from her chair and spun to face the man she’d just been fantasizing about on the beach.
Except they weren’t on a beach. They were in the bright white environment of Wycoff Worldwide Travel Agency—”We make your dreams come true”—in the Westwood area of Los Angeles, surrounded by the hum of telephones, computer beeps and the voices of the four other Wycoff agents and their clients.
There were a few minor differences in the man himself. For one thing, he was wearing a three-piece suit, not a small, tight black swimsuit. For another, she wouldn’t exactly describe his gaze as “hot with passion.” “Hot with annoyance” was more like it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to organize her hair, her skirt, her blue silk sweater set and her mind all at the same time as she collapsed back into her desk chair. “I guess I was, um—” Might as well use the same line on him that had more-or-less worked with Mr. Wycoff. “—was concentrating so hard on my work that I didn’t see you come in.”
He wasn’t buying it. “Annoyance” was no longer sufficient to describe his mood. He looked like a bomb on a short fuse. Except for those things, he was identical to the man on the beach—big, dark haired, tanned, more or less drop-dead gorgeous. Just looking at his scowling face was reawakening the bothersome tingle.
This was no time to tingle. It was time to focus, and focusing on him would not exactly be painful.
“Please sit down. How may I help you?”
He sat down hard in the chair beside her desk, simultaneously handing her a card he’d fished out of the breast pocket of his suit coat. “You can plan a honeymoon for my client,” he said as if he would rather be tied to a stake and surrounded by dry firewood than planning a honeymoon.
Faith had to wrench her gaze away from his mouth in order to glance at the card. His lower lip was so full and curved so sensuously he should have been wearing a fig leaf over it. “‘Cabot Drennan,’” she murmured, “‘Publicist to the Stars.’ Oh, my goodness, what an exciting job. Well, Cabot…” Mr. Wycoff said to go straight for first names, unless you were talking to him. “There’s nothing I enjoy more than planning honeymoons. In fact, honeymoons are my specialty.” That wasn’t quite the truth, but it was the direction she intended to go in and she’d been doing a lot of research on her own time—and quite a bit more on Mr. Wycoff’s. “What sort of location were you thinking of?” Her own dream honeymoon havens began flitting through her mind.
“Someplace with good light and a dependable electrical system.”
She blinked. “And an air of romance, I would imagine,” she said hopefully. “Have you considered the Cayman Islands?” It would be so efficient to send this client honeymooning right along with the Muldens.
“How’s the phone system there?”
Faith slid her gaze down from his close-cropped head of black hair to his chocolate-brown eyes. “Well, I’ve been online with many of the hotels there this week, but I don’t suppose that makes me an authority on the subject. There’s Rio de Janeiro,” she said, warming to her task. “What could be more romantic?”
“Too far.”
“Mexico, then. It’s closer to L.A., if your client is concerned about being too far from home, and the coastal towns have some lovely resorts with absolutely private bungalows, perfect for a…”
“Privacy is the last thing she wants.”
Odder and odder. “Has she considered a cruise?”
“You’re trapped on a cruise.” A muscle twitched tensely in his cheek.
“She’s already trapped, in a manner of speaking,” Faith said earnestly. “Once she promises to have and to hold, in sickness or in…”
His face reddened with impatience. “I didn’t come here for a lecture on family values.”
“How about the coast of Maine?”
“Too cold. She’ll have goose bumps in the photos.”
“Oh. Of course. She’ll want to take a lot of pictures for her memory book.”
He heaved a deep sigh. “She’s an up-and-coming young actress.” For a moment his eyes shifted left and he seemed uncomfortable. “I’ll be taking a crew along to make a video of the honeymoon.”
“A video? You’re going to film this woman’s honeymoon?”
“Yes.”
Faith straightened, locked her knees tightly together and pursed her lips. “Well. I’m very sorry,” she said, “but we at Wycoff Worldwide wouldn’t consider being a party to that kind of film. I’m afraid you will have to look elsewhere for travel assistance.”
He half rose from the chair. As big as he was, it scared Faith a little, but she stiffened her backbone. Standards were standards, and she was not going to make the arrangements for a porn flick.
“I don’t intend to film that part of the honeymoon, for God’s sake,” he said in a deep growl that thinned out his sexy lower lip until it was nearly normal.
“In that case,” she squeaked, “we at Wycoff are happy to assist you.”
He sat down again, his lower lip relaxed, and Faith was faced with a whole new issue, most of it going on below the waistband of her flowered silk skirt.
“Look—” He stared at her left breast.
Feel free to touch the display. But he wasn’t actually looking at her breast. He was looking at the rectangular silver pin just above her left breast, the one with her name on it.
“—Faith, this is a fairly simple thing I’m asking you to do. I want you to make the arrangements for a honeymoon in an accessible location with top-flight technological services—” he halted for a moment, looking thoughtful “—and dependable beauticians and manicurists—” he paused again “—and it has to be a well-known honeymoon spot.” His glower returned.
Faith swiveled her chair a little to face him more fully, just as she’d learned to do in People Skills, the only course in the Travel Agent program she hadn’t daydreamed her way through. But the instructor hadn’t mentioned what to do if, when her knees brushed the client’s, it sent a shot of electricity through her entire body. As though he’d felt it too, his gaze briefly melted over her.
“I’m sure I can make your dreams come true,” she murmured. “I mean, her dreams.”
He snorted. “But can you make the reservations?”
Faith took a deep breath, gave herself the condensed version of her sister Hope’s lecture on presenting herself positively and said, “Of course. First we’ll find the location of her dreams. That may take a little research.”
“Time is money. You never have enough of either one.”
He had a way with words. “Tomorrow,” she said. “By tomorrow I’ll be able to offer you a choice of desirable locations and we’ll proceed from there.”
“Today would be better.”
Today she had to get the Cayman Islands organized to receive the Muldens. “I’ll do my best,” she promised.
“I was thinking Reno.”
She stared at him blankly. “It’s certainly well-known as a spot for quick marriages,” she said. “Is this a quick marriage? Oh, dear,” she said at once, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I was just thinking how many truly romantic places there were and wondering…”
“The hotel is your problem, not the romance.” If anything, he looked even grimmer and less romantic than he had before. “The thing about Reno,” he went on, “is it’s close and it’s got all those hokey round beds and pink rooms and AC current.”
“It does have those advantages.” She felt deeply disappointed in him. A publicist who looked like a romantic fantasy should be able to rise above Reno, or even Niagara Falls. Not that Reno wasn’t a lot of fun and the Falls weren’t fantastic, but you only got one honeymoon, and it ought to be…
“I sense you don’t approve.”
Faith jolted in her chair. “My job is to send her where she wants to go,” she assured him, “not to approve or disapprove.”
“So make it Reno,” he said. “Tippy will be crazy about Reno.”
“Tippy?” Faith said, and then it hit her. “You’re not talking about Tippy Temple.”
For a moment he looked uncomfortable. “Yes. You’ve heard of her?”
“I saw her interview on the Scott Trent Show and liked her so much I rented her movie.” Faith felt breathless as she lapsed into a reverie about the romantic film she’d watched last weekend.
“Her first big movie, I think,” she said. “A Kiss to Build a Dream On. She may not have been the lead, but she was the star as far as I’m concerned.” She sighed. “She’s beautiful, and so sweet. Oh, the way she gave up Josh Barnett to the heroine, what’s-her-name, was the most touching, the most heroic act. I’m so happy she’s found her true love in real life.” She focused her gaze on Cabot. “May I ask, would it be too personal a question, who she’s marrying?”
In the silence, she watched a variety of expressions cross Cabot’s face. His eyes widened, then narrowed as he chewed on his lower lip, and at last he settled for lines of grim resignation.
“Me,” he said.
2
THERE IT WAS. He’d made his decision, sitting across from the cutest little woman he’d ever met, looking into her gray eyes and realizing it was time to fish or cut bait.
Maybe he wasn’t so much cutting bait as cutting off the light of sudden attraction he’d seen and recognized in those eyes, and responded to in a big way. Cute little persons weren’t on his agenda right now. Little stars who deserved to be big stars were. When he had a stable of successful clients, he’d be free to look for the kind of woman he’d like to spend the rest of his life with, the kind of woman…
The kind of woman who’d lose that light of sudden attraction the second she heard he was already spoken for. That’s what Faith Sumner had done. The dreamy quality of her gaze was gone, replaced by a look as severely professional as he guessed a butterfly like Faith could manage.
FAITH DIDN’T REALIZE she’d been daydreaming about honeymooning herself with Cabot Drennan until he hit her with the news that he was the lucky man who was marrying Tippy Temple. That ended the never-fully-realized daydream.
However gorgeous he was, however beautifully he personified the man she would someday love and be cherished by, she had to give up this particular man forever. Even in her dreams. She could never deprive someone as lovely as Tippy Temple of the man of her dreams.
Or the honeymoon of her dreams.
So she relinquished her own happiness. Her heartbreak would be brief, since her daydream hadn’t lasted long. She faced Cabot Drennan squarely and said, “Tippy is not going to want to honeymoon in Reno. She’ll want to go to the most romantic place in the world. Paris. Venice off-season, or a private villa on the coast of—”
“My cell phone won’t work in Europe.”
Faith gazed at him for a long, long moment. “An isolated lodge in the Rockies?”
“No.”
She leaned toward him a bit. “A tiny bed-and-breakfast in Vermont?”
“No.”
“In Napa Valley?”
“No.”
Her voice hardened. “A private car on a coast-to-coast train.”
“No.”
“Williamsburg, Virginia? You can live out your fantasies in Colonial costume.”
He gave her a look of scorn. “No.”
“Rent San Simeon—you know, the Hearst estate about halfway up the coast? It’s a national park, but I think you can rent the bungalows.”
He showed his first flicker of interest. “Hmm. Phone, electricity. We could bring in the hairdressers and manicurists and all the other paraphernalia. Rent another bungalow for the crew. Yeah. Find out how much it costs.”
Feeling hopeful, Faith spun to her computer. Charity had been one of those kids who taught the rest of the family how to use their first computer. Thanks to her coaching—bullying was more like it—Faith was fairly computer-literate. In a few minutes she had her answer.
“No,” Cabot said when he heard the price.
Thoroughly frustrated, Faith collapsed back against her chair. “All right, I’ll get to work on accommodations in Reno, but please do this one thing for me?”
His expression said he’d done all he could just by sitting there listening to her ridiculous suggestions.
“Talk to Tippy about this first.” Faith was sure the angelic Tippy would have a fit, an angelic fit, of course, about going to Reno, and Cabot would be back, humble and subdued, to take a look at that little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont or the isolated lodge in the Rockies.
“Of course. Then we’re through for now?”
Unfortunately. “Yes.”
“You’ll get right to work on it. You won’t wait for Tippy’s answer.”
“No,” Faith lied. Of course she would. And while she waited, she’d finish up the Muldens’ arrangements.
“I’ll call you early tomorrow morning.”
“How early?” Again the look on his face stopped her. Wordlessly she handed him her business card, which listed her office number, home number, cell phone number, pager number and e-mail address. She was grateful Wycoff printed cards for its agents. She’d never be able to memorize all those numbers.
He took the card, got up and started for the door. Faith watched his every movement, the stride of his long legs, the roll of his broad shoulders, the way his hand wrenched at the door handle. She got up to follow his progress across the street, where he swung smoothly into some sort of small, gleaming silver sports car. He looked terrific in sunglasses.
She stood at the window for a long, long moment, unable to keep herself from resuming her daydream of that tall, dark, domineering man turning into so much custard in her hands. Melting under her touch, while she slyly hid the fact that she was melting too, turning into a river of—
“Faith…” It was Mr. Wycoff right behind her, issuing a warning.
“Yes, sir,” Faith said, whirling, “the Muldens. By five.”
