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Lavender Field specialized in a dazzling array of breads, rolls and other sinful things. They were so good that rumor had it you could tell how well a company treated its employees simply by the presence of a box with the green-and-lavender logo in the coffee room.
White-gold charms and rolls and pastries from Lavender Field? Maureen knew how to treat her guests—and potential contributors to her project.
Rory tossed back the last of her drink and draped her lavender shawl over the back of her chair. “Hell, no. I’m going to dance.”
Lauren watched her sister tap someone on the shoulder and, on the pretext of trying out the man’s key, invite him to dance. The light from a gold spotlight slid over Rory’s graceful, generous body as she passed under it, and then she and her partner disappeared into the crowd on the black-and-white-checkered dance floor.
Music blasted from the stage, lights flashed and swooped, and from somewhere in the back, a woman screamed with laughter. People laughed and talked over the beat as they danced, the whole crowd bobbing up and down in time with the music.
Lauren scanned the room for her first victim.
She’d already picked Maureen’s brain about the background of the key party and the logistics of setting one up. A woman as driven for her cause as Maureen was didn’t waste her time on angles that didn’t succeed—and a key party was pretty much guaranteed to succeed. But what Lauren needed was the voice on the street who, let’s face it, came to these things not because they were as passionate about the cause, but because deep down they believed—hoped—they’d find true love.
Or at least a date for the evening.
She zeroed in on an Asian girl in turquoise silk sitting in one of the dining alcoves, partially hidden by sound-absorbing velvet drapes. She blinked as the girl turned her head and she recognized the glossy fall of blue-black hair and the sloe eyes of her own roommate. Well, why not? Vivien’s opinions were as valuable as those of a stranger, and it was an easy way to start.
“Sorry, I’m straight,” Vivien Li deadpanned as Lauren slid in beside her on the padded leather-look bench.
“Sure, you are. You’re not getting away from me that easily.” Lauren grinned. “Nice dress, by the way. You didn’t tell me you were coming to this shindig.”
She and Vivien had been roommates since their junior year at Berkeley. Once they’d graduated—Lauren with a degree in communications and Viv with one in computer electronics—both of them had concluded there was no reason to give up a comfortable living arrangement. Besides, Lauren often thought, what sane woman would let go of a roomie who could cook as well as Viv did? So they’d moved across the Bay and Lauren had gone to work while Viv slaved at her post-grad degree and worked part-time to pay her half of the rent.
“Someone at work couldn’t go at the last minute, so he gave me his ticket. It said ‘Unlock the Possibilities.’ What does that mean, exactly?”
Lauren laughed. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. How about I interview you for Inside Out?” She took her minirecorder out of her evening bag, turned it on and put it on the table between them, next to the red glass lamp with dangling crystals that propped up the wine list.
“How come I always have to be your lab rat?” Viv complained. “You know ‘Lorelei’ scares me silly. I always picture her looking like Cruella De Vil. The cartoon one, not Glenn Close.”
Lauren shook her head. “Nope. She looks like Alicia Silverstone crossed with Maggie Gyllenhaal in Secretary.”
“Ai-ya,” Vivien moaned. “A demented blonde who wants to pick my brain. And probably eat it.”
“No, that would be the Queen of Pain. To her, the word freelancer has no meaning. Every time I go into the office she has her people locked up in meetings, and she tries to suck me into the vortex with them.”
Other than having to endure her editor, working on the Lorelei column and blog for Inside Out was fun. And a regular paycheck, no matter what its size, was nice, too. Realistically, Lauren knew blogging was a phase that, like Bennifer and platform shoes, wouldn’t last. What she really wanted to do was to work for a high-profile magazine, and not just as a contributing freelancer, either. Someday she’d be on the staff at Left Coast, which was based here in San Francisco and ran the kinds of stories that were nominated for major literary prizes.
However, “Lorelei” wasn’t going to get her noticed there. In fact, she was probably more of a liability than an asset. But her press pass got her into more events than not, and it all gave her material she could use.
“I need some insight into this whole key thing,” Lauren said. “I value your opinions. Besides, you’re in my demographic.”
“What’s that? Lesbian Chinese-American master’s candidates?”
“No. Singles. It’s a very broad demographic. So, what brought you out tonight besides the fund-raiser? What’s the attraction in it?”
Vivien considered the question. “It’s more personal than want ads and doesn’t have the commitment factor of dinner and a movie, you know?”
“Commitment factor?”
“Yeah. Do I sleep with her because she had to pre-order the duck à l’orange? Or did we go to Korean barbecue when I was expecting the Top of the Mark, so all she gets is a kiss and some garlic breath? With a key party, you don’t have to ask yourself questions like this. Your key fits, you like the person, you hang around and talk for a while.”
“What if you don’t like the person? What if they have garlic breath?”
“Then you go put your ticket in the prize-drawing thing, slip them a mint and move on. Everyone knows the drill, so there’s no hard feelings.”
“It’s like a giant mixer.”
Viv nodded. “Only cooler.”
Lauren turned off the recorder. Cool was good. Inside Out liked cool, though Left Coast would probably turn up its nose at it. “Thanks for the insight.”
“Mind you, this event is set up for hetero mixing,” Viv said. “I have to work a little harder.”
Lauren looked out over the twisting, laughing crowd. “What you do is swap your lock for a gay guy’s key. That way both of you are lined up to get the right partner.”
“Oh-oh.” Viv’s face, a perfect oval with the kind of fine complexion that needed no makeup, brightened. “Good plan. I’m all over it.” She leaned over and gave Lauren an affectionate peck. “Gotta go unlock some possibilities.”
Lauren followed her out into the crowd and, for the next forty-five minutes, did her best to circulate and talk to people.
“Mind if I try you on for size?”
Oh, please. She’d heard at least five versions of that one. Lauren pasted on a polite smile and turned to the man—well, kid, really—in the scuffed leather jacket and presented her chest to him. Just how many variations of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” could people come up with? By the end of the evening the odds were good she’d find out.
The backs of the kid’s fingers brushed the peach silk of her tank top as he lifted the tiny suitcase. He jumped. She didn’t. Lauren gazed at him thoughtfully as he flourished his little key and tried to fit it into the lock. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him before?
Her lock didn’t open.
Oh, good.
“Nice to have met you,” the guy said cheerfully, obviously not that cut up that he wasn’t going to be spending the rest of the evening with her. He moved on to Rory, who was standing ten feet away. She topped him by a couple of inches, but he, evidently, was a brave man. He reached for her cleavage.
Lauren looked out over the crowded dance floor. The guy was in her reader demographic. She should have interviewed him while she’d had the chance. But she’d already talked to six or seven people and so far hadn’t found one who presented an opposing view. Everybody seemed to think a key party was a good thing. But then, if you hated them you’d probably just put a check in the mail to Maureen’s office, wouldn’t you?
She glanced around the room in an attempt to locate Michaela, who had gone to get more drinks. Those who had found the person with the key to their suitcase were crowding the stage, where Maureen was busy handing out prizes and putting the numbered slips from the lockets into a big rotating basket like the ones the lotteries used.
Lauren moved her stool closer to Rory’s when her sister sat down. “Is there a reason that kid looked familiar?”
Rory always knew stuff like this. A woman who had subscriptions to People and Variety and who hosted movie-and-dinner parties where people actually came in costume had to know.
“Alien Bodyguard.”
Lauren snapped her fingers. “That’s it.” He’d played the hapless younger brother killed off on the first episode of Alien Bodyguard, one of the midseason TV shows Lorelei had ripped to shreds. That had started a lovely big controversy about turning science fiction novels into TV shows that had made her blog traffic peak at ten thousand hits a day. She’d better go interview him before his key fit someone’s lock. A celebrity quote wasn’t something you lucked onto every day.
“No sign of Johnny Depp?” Michaela swiveled around a good-looking jerk who was making graphic hand motions and put their drinks on the table, including a soft drink for herself.
Good girl, Mikki. Every time her sister resisted temptation meant a victory in a long chain of victories that took her further away from the alcoholic darkness of four years ago, which had peaked after her breakup with her husband.
They chatted for a few minutes and then Lauren said, “Why do they pair the women up with men, anyway? My perfect date is a little old lady with an early bedtime.” She scanned the room for a leather jacket. “Then I could go home and start on this story.”
Michaela bumped her shoulder as she sat. “Don’t be so focused, honey. Have some fun with this. Your partner could be tall, rich and gorgeous.”
“I hope he’s tall, rich and gay, and I can give his key to Vivien. Don’t forget, I’m in the market for a motorcycle, not a man.”
“What about the fun part? You’re like a laser beam, tracking your target.” Mikki looked half-amused, half-exasperated. “Come on. Let’s get out there and dance.”
But before Lauren could reply, Rory nudged Michaela and her sister froze at the sight of a man approaching them.
“Oh, my God,” Lauren murmured. As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Mikki’s ex, Nolan Baylor, approached them with those bedroom eyes and that same confident grin, both trained on her sister. But how could this be? Wasn’t his law practice in Los Angeles? What was he doing here, looking all buff and casual in his charcoal polo shirt? And what business did he have spoiling Mikki’s night by showing up?
But as anyone in her family could tell you, Mikki Correlli could take care of herself. “What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped.
In answer, Nolan grinned and flourished a small, white-gold key.
2
LAUREN COULDN’T DECIDE whether to leap up and claw his eyes out, or let Michaela do it. Something seemed to combust in the air between her sister and former brother-in-law as he practically taunted her with the key. Her eyes flashing with anger and contempt, Michaela made a big show of ignoring him and introducing his friend, Tucker Schulz. Tuck’s eyes signaled interest, but that was the last thing Lauren could deal with amid all this sudden tension. Her options seemed to be sticking by Mikki’s side for support and fading into the wallpaper. Neither was very appealing.
Thank God there were no serious men in her past to reappear and mess up her life. She’d had enough trouble keeping it on an even keel on her own. After she’d come to live at Garrison Street, it had taken years for her to figure out that there were people in this world who would actually love you and stick around when you said you loved them. Her childhood had taught her the opposite, after Dad had taken off when she was ten. When she was fourteen, Mom had looked at the choice between her habit and her daughter—heroin or the kid? Hmm, that’s a hard one. Let’s pick heroin. And the choice had killed her.
That was why love—the kind of love that meant picket fences and permanence and kids—was one helluva scary proposition, one that both attracted and repelled Lauren.
Not that she was against picket fences in principle. She was looking thirty-one in the face, after all. But she seemed to have a knack for picking guys who already had something in their lives she had to compete with. Like Carl, who loved programming games for Lucas Arts more than doing things with her. Or Luis, who had wanted kids and picket fences as long as his mom and most of his extended family could come and share them, too.
Then she’d gone out on a limb and tried online dating with one of those nifty interfaces where you filled out your wish list of the perfect man’s qualifications. What had she wound up with?
An interesting archaeologist—oh, yeah, and her son.
Feeling like a coward, Lauren excused herself as gracefully as she could and got back to work. Circling the room, she ran a hand over the mass of curls Rory’s clever fingers had coaxed into her taffy-colored mop, and got her mind back on a safer track.
She needed to decide on a theme for her article. What did it say about society when you could surf for a partner in the same way she surfed TV channels, searching for something that looked good enough to spend some time on?
Hmm. That would make a good lead. Then she could follow it with—
“Excuse me,” said a baritone voice behind her. She turned and looked straight into a crisp shirtfront. Her gaze traveled up a row of buttons, one by one. Here was the stuff dreams were made on, or it would be if her subconscious ever thought to cast men like this.
His hair, which was on the long side, flopped into his left eye in a way that should have made him look messy but instead made him look intriguing and mysterious. He grinned, and she dropped ten years from her first estimate. He had the kind of grin that made a woman do a double take—all little-boy mischief on the one hand and pure male appreciation on the other. What was it about dimples in a male cheek that could make a woman’s knees go all soft and wobbly? And check out the way the overhead light made hollows under his cheekbones. His eyes were dark as sin, with long lashes that managed to look sexy instead of feminine.
“May I?” He held up his key.
A miracle. No tired one-liner. The man was not only yummy, he was so classy he’d achieved originality.
“Sure.” She should be so lucky.
No, luck was a lady tonight. An old lady with an early bedtime. A frisson of sensation tiptoed across her skin as his long, sensitive fingers brushed the shallow curves of her breasts. Not for the first time, she wished she were a little deeper in the keel, like Rory. Enough to make this charmer focus on her instead of on the little suitcase he held.
Never mind, Cinderella. You’re not at the ball to find a prince. Not unless he’s willing to give you a quote.
He inserted his key in her lock and turned it.
Snick. The two halves of the suitcase sprang open the way women probably welcomed him all the time.
Oh, my. Lauren hadn’t been expecting anyone to open her lock; she’d kept herself so focused on interviewing people that she’d sidestepped most of the possibilities. It was one thing to ogle this guy and appreciate him the way she did good food and beautiful scenery. But now that he had the key to her lock, she either had to let herself go and enjoy whatever he had to offer, or—or what? Leave?
Suddenly escape looked much less appealing than it had a few minutes ago.
“I finally lucked out.” He smiled down at her. “I have to admit I was here more for the benefit part than the key part. But now it looks as if the benefit is all mine.”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Lauren sounded a lot more casual than she felt as she fished out the paper slip her suitcase held. “We turn this little piece of paper in to Maureen and get a prize, then she enters us in the big drawing. But you go ahead. I have to talk to someone.”
“Oh, no. We’re in this together.”
He offered her his hand and, instead of murmuring the excuse that fluttered on her tongue, she found herself taking it and allowing him to lead her to the stage. His fingers were warm and very sure as they wrapped around hers.
“I’m Josh, by the way.” He glanced down at her, one eyebrow raised. She’d thought only English actors could pull off that lazy, inquiring brow. It managed to transmit both interest and inquiry in one movement.
Sigh. No, you have to work tonight. Don’t you? “Lauren.”
Since he was already holding her hand, he couldn’t exactly shake it. He squeezed her fingers instead. He might have been about to say more, but behind a knot of people, Lauren caught a glimpse of the Alien Bodyguard kid’s leather jacket. Aha!
“Josh, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do need to speak to someone.” She tried to disengage her hand. The part of her that loved forties swing music and bought antique clothes wondered why she was giving up a chance with a gorgeous, interested man in favor of a kid who didn’t even know who she was. “I’m a journalist, and I’m after that kid over there in the jacket.”
“Kit Maddox? No problem, I’ll wait.”
What circles did he move in that he knew the actor’s name? Maybe he was in the movie business. Maybe she should introduce him to Rory. But then, it was a safe bet he wouldn’t be there when she got back. Mentally, she kissed the delectable Josh goodbye and headed off across the floor.
Five minutes and one dance later—did anyone have any idea how hard it was to hold a recorder while someone was dipping you?—she had her celebrity quote. Now she could go home and make Lorelei eat some crow in public about her treatment of Alien Bodyguard, and go into a snit about it, which would make people respond on the chat board, which would make traffic spike, which would make the Queen of Pain happy.
She detoured around a couple who looked as if they were doing gym exercises to “Hot, Hot, Hot,” and found Josh standing right where she’d left him.
The impact hit her under the ribcage. Had he been watching her dance with Maddox? Had he liked what he’d seen? What presence the guy had. He stood there, one hip cocked and one hand in the pocket of his black jeans, in a pose straight out of GQ or Esquire.
The appealing thing was, he seemed to be completely unaware of both pose and the fact that women were ebbing and flowing around him like a crowd of interested muses. Lauren liked that in a man. Not that she thought everything should be all about her—except when it came to competing for the bathroom mirror.
He strolled over, parting the disarray with effortless ease. “I saw you caught Maddox. Did you get what you needed from him?”
He had been watching her, just the way she was watching him. “Yes, and now I need something from you. How do you do that?”
He looked around, a charming little wrinkle between his brows. “Do what?”
She shook her head with a smile. “Never mind.” If he didn’t know the effect he had on women, all the better. Though why she was thinking about sharing the bathroom mirror at all was something she didn’t want to go into at the moment.
“So tell me what you need from me,” he said. “Before I make a few suggestions myself.”
Lauren swallowed. His voice, even with a hint of a rasp around the edges, was as alluring as dark chocolate—and no doubt just as bad for you. But…her research was done and he was here and after all, it had been a long time since a man had looked at her like this.
“I need—” I need you to go somewhere dark and quiet with me. I need you to unlock my possibilities.
No, you can’t say things like that to a stranger. Mikki can, but not you.
