Chasing Harry Winston (31 page)

“English major.”

“Enough said.”

“And you?” Rafi asked, spearing a forkful of shredded goat-cheese salad.

“Government.”

He made a face that said “give me a break” and poked her in the side.

“I don’t know, nothing that interesting,” Emmy said, and she meant it. She hated when people asked her to sum up her life, because there really wasn’t that much to tell. “Born and raised in New Jersey in a perfectly pleasant suburb with good public schools and soccer and the whole deal. My dad died when I was five, so I don’t really even remember him, and after that my mom sort of tuned out. She was always there, but she wasn’t really there, you know? She got remarried a few years ago and moved to Arizona, so we don’t see her that much. My younger sister, now pregnant with her first, is a doctor in Miami. Let’s see, what else? I went to Cornell for undergrad and then decided I wanted to be a chef, so I went to culinary school, then I decided I didn’t want to be a chef at all, so I dropped out. Fascinating stuff, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Liar.”

“Well, it certainly seems like you have a cool job,” Rafi said.

“That’s true. It’s only been six months, but I’m loving it so far.”

“What’s not to love about traveling all over the world, staying in beautiful hotels, and having affairs with foreign men?”

“I don’t do that!” Emmy protested.

“Now you’re the liar.”

“Not all the hotels are beautiful….”

Rafi laughed, a good, masculine laugh, and poked her again. “Well, I’m not complaining. I’m honored to be guy number six hundred twelve, or whatever your number is these days.”

More like just plain old six,
Emmy thought. Which, considering Duncan had been her third, was pretty damn respectable: Since the Tour de Whore had begun the previous June, she’d doubled the number that it had taken her nearly thirty years to reach. After a bit of effort she was over the hump, so to speak, but George had been the perfect start. Then there was last week’s Australian guy, currently living in London, who had grown up in Zimbabwe because his parents owned a safari company—he was all rugged and outdoorsy and although not blond or half as cute, could definitely remind someone of Leo in
Blood Diamond
after a couple of vodka tonics. Emmy was there only for a long weekend and overbooked with work to the breaking point, but what girl on earth could possibly pass up her very own Mick Dundee? Now Rafi was a positively delicious addition to her list. All three had been completely respectful, if not downright reverent, and Emmy couldn’t remember ever feeling sexier or more confident. As long as she was safe, which she was—using both the pill and condoms—and she didn’t have unreasonable expectations for what would follow—generally, absolutely nothing—then there was plenty to enjoy. Which was why it bothered her so much that Leigh and Adriana were suddenly on their high horses about the kind of wild fun they had so enthusiastically encouraged.

When she’d told them about the Australian, both had laughed and applauded her adventuresome conquest. Leigh had officially declared her risk of One-Hit Wonderdom over. Adriana pressed for the usual size/position/fetish details and looked downright envious when Emmy provided them with relish. Tour de Whore was officially declared up and running. Emmy had expected the same enthusiasm, or maybe even more, about Rafi, especially when she’d answered Adriana’s call the day before, but her friend had sounded more subdued.

“Hey, happy new year!” Emmy had said into her cell phone. “How is it being home?”

Adriana sighed. “São Paulo’s great, and it’s nice to see everyone, but I think a full week between Christmas and New Year’s is a bit too ambitious.”

“But I’m assuming your father’s happy?”

“He’s in heaven. It’s the only time all year he gets all his children in one place, so what can you do? It’s a command performance, but as long as we all understand that and show up and smile, it’s not unbearable.”

Emmy laughed to herself at Adriana’s idea of unbearable: tropical weather, a massive family compound staffed with more servants than the average hotel, and a full week of doing nothing but eating, drinking, and visiting old friends. She decided to change the subject entirely before she said something unkind. “So, guess what? I may have gotten to know—in the biblical sense—a very hot Israeli guy last night. And we’re spending the evening together tonight.”

Adriana whistled. “Wow,
querida
. That was fast. Like lightning.”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t leap into bed with a soldier!”

“Of course I would. But wasn’t Croc Dundee just last weekend? Or am I confused? My god, Emmy, I never thought I’d have trouble keeping your men straight.”

Was that annoyance Emmy was hearing in Adi’s voice? Judgment? Dare she even think it might be envy?

“Rafi is cute and smart and a total sweetheart. It was so much fun.”

“Let’s not forget Jewish,” Adriana said, and Emmy could almost see her wagging her forefinger. “We know what that means…husband material!”

Emmy sighed dramatically. “You and Leigh were yelling and screaming just six months ago that I have to stop husband-hunting, that I absolutely must expand my sexual repertoire. Then, when I do exactly that, all you can talk about is getting married!”

“All right,
querida
, calm down. Of course I want you to have your fun. Let’s talk about something else—like me.”

Emmy laughed as she scrolled through the channels on the muted hotel television. “Fair enough. How’s Mr. Baron? Dreamy as always?”

“He’s good. Back in Toronto filming. But I have news.”

“Don’t tell me that—”

“No, we’re not engaged. However…” She paused for effect and Emmy wanted to strangle her. “
Marie Claire
is going to publish my columns!”

“Your columns?” Emmy knew she wasn’t exactly being supportive, but this was the first she was hearing about this.

“Yes, can you believe it? I met one of the editors at some dinner Toby dragged me to in November, and I taught her the rules of man-catching—which, I might add, worked so beautifully that she’s still dating the man she met that night—and she wants to publish my advice!”

Emmy could barely mask her shock. Adriana a columnist? Adriana getting paid by someone else for work completed? It was almost too much to comprehend. “Adi, congratulations! You’ll be able to impart your wisdom to a whole new generation of young women. Incredible.”

“God knows they need it. American women…good lord…but I’m going to try. Listen, I have to get ready for lunch. Papa invited the entire neighborhood over for New Year’s Eve. Where are you going with the Israeli boy tonight?”

“Some restaurant in Tel Aviv, and then, if I have anything to say about it, directly back to my hotel room.”

Adriana sighed. “It’s like listening to a new Emmy. It warms my heart,
querida
, it really does. Just be careful, okay? No need to sleep with every guy you meet.”

“Did you really just say that? What the hell did you mean by that? Do I even need to remind you—”

Adriana interrupted her with a singsongy laugh. “Must run,
querida
! Have fun tonight, and happy new year! I’ll talk to you next year!”

The exchange left Emmy feeling strange, a little off-kilter, the way she used to feel in junior high when she watched her friends shoplift lipstick from Kmart: not a hundred percent guilty, but nervous and slightly ashamed. Wasn’t she doing exactly as they’d ordered? She wasn’t trying to make anyone her husband—not so much as a single wedding dream in months!—and still she could sense their disapproval. It seemed so unfair. Even the angel Leigh had been with twelve, maybe fifteen guys before Russell, and no one thought that was particularly noteworthy. And Adriana! Good lord. The girl had slept with men (plural) she’d met in cabs on the way home from parties at the end of the night, having never laid eyes on them before, and she had the nerve to act shocked when Emmy met a nice boy through a work-related function and made a sober, mature decision to have a fling.
Pardon me, Adi
, she thought to herself with a roll of the eyes, an
affair.
Having sex with three perfectly polite and handsome men did not a femme fatale make.

Vowing not to let the memory of her friend’s newfound prudishness bother her, Emmy pushed aside her plate and snuggled into Rafi’s muscular embrace.

“Do you want to see a movie tonight?” she crooned, covering his forearm with little kisses. “Or maybe just order something on Pay-Per-View?”

Rafi stroked her hair and leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I’d love to, sweetheart, but I’ve got to get back home.” He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Actually, I’d better get moving now.”

“Now?” Emmy shot up, almost knocking his jaw with her shoulder. Weren’t they going to spend the whole afternoon in bed, making love and taking baths and drinking yogurt smoothies? She figured they’d enjoy that at least until nightfall, at which point they could pull on whatever clothes were lying around and drag themselves to some hole-in-the-wall dive with great food that was known only to locals. They’d feast on falafel and hummus and gulp cheap red wine, and then they’d stagger back to the hotel, laughing and holding hands and falling into each other the whole way back. Satiated and exhausted, they’d collapse into the cool sheets and sleep for ten straight hours, only to wake and make love some more before he drove her to the airport and kissed away her tears, vowing to come visit her in New York over the holidays, if not before. Surely she’d meet his parents then, too—normally, it would be much too soon, but considering he’d be coming all the way from Israel and they were only in Philadelphia, it would be downright silly not to meet for a meal, even if it was just a quick lunch somewhere on the—

“Emmy? Sweetheart, I told you yesterday that I’d be driving south today. Don’t you remember?” His voice sounded concerned, but Emmy was convinced she detected the faintest hint of irritation.

Of course she remembered him saying that he’d have to leave, but she certainly hadn’t believed it.

Emmy nuzzled into his neck. “I remember, Rafi, but that was…that was yesterday. You still have to leave?” She hated the sound of her voice, pleading and a little bit pathetic. She’d just finished telling anyone who would listen that she was just in it for casual, unattached fun, and here she was clinging to this near stranger like a barnacle.
Please don’t pull a Paul!
she thought urgently.
Please, please, please.

He moved away ever so slightly and gave her a strange look. “Yeah, I still have to go” were the words he actually uttered, but what Emmy heard was something closer to “The last twenty-four hours were great, but not so great that I’m going to change my plans and stay with you.”

Stung, Emmy tucked the sheet under her arms and rolled, making sure to keep as much skin covered as possible. She felt exposed and vulnerable, yes, but it was more than that: It had happened suddenly, but she was now acutely aware that she would most likely never see Rafi again. So what if his departure only confirmed that they were just having a good time? That was all she wanted, anyway. Rafi was sweet and handsome, but she barely knew him and, were she being completely honest, she couldn’t see them spending the rest of their lives together. So why get upset over him leaving when he said he was going to all along? It was quite simple, so simple that Emmy suspected every woman on the planet instinctively understood the concept even when no man was able to wrap his brain around it: She didn’t necessarily want him to stay, she just wanted him to
want
to stay. Was that really asking too much? And even though she would never, ever agree to go with him—truth be told, she could use a little alone time, and there was no denying she needed to catch up on work—couldn’t he have had the decency to ask? A simple invitation to join him? Was that really so unreasonable?

He climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” he called, the door already closing. “I hope you know you’re welcome to join me if you want.”

Join what? The shower? The trip down south? The rest of his life as his beloved betrothed?

This was exhausting. If she was going to make this kind of emotional investment in someone, he should at least be a proper boyfriend. But for a casual fling? She could drive herself crazy. The doubts were racing through her mind (
Just admit you’re not cut out for this lifestyle, You’re a monogamist at heart, Stop acting like an immature party girl
, and on and on).

Get it together
, Emmy told herself as she resolutely pulled on a pair of dependable cotton bikinis and one of her full-coverage, heavily padded, where-sex-goes-to-die bras. A navy pantsuit and white button-down shirt came next, and just as she heard the shower turn off, Emmy chose her classic loafers over the high-heeled pumps she’d been wearing for the last few weeks. By the time Rafi emerged, fully dressed in clean jeans and a blue shirt, Emmy was perched primly on the bed, flipping through her Filofax while trying to act aloof and preoccupied.

Rafi stood over her, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and kissed her neck. It was an intimate move, suggestive of people who had spent loads of time together, and for a moment Emmy was pleased. Pleased, that is, until Rafi released her hair and, after giving her a rather paternal kiss on the forehead, began to gather his watch and wallet and canvas backpack. He’d collected his things in just a minute and didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Emmy appeared both silent and completely absorbed in her scheduling.

“I know you must have a lot of work to do, sweetheart, so I won’t make this a long, sappy good-bye.” He plucked his sunglasses from the night table and pushed them on top of his head.

“Mmm” was all Emmy managed. Was he really going to just up and leave?

“Come here, give me a hug.” He squeezed her arm to indicate she should stand up; when she obliged, she found herself in the middle of an embrace so lukewarm, so passionless, that it could have been shared with a distant grandfather or a close hairstylist. “Emmy, this was great. Really, really great.”