Bombshell (20 page)

I headed for the kitchen, dug through my makeshift bar for the scotch, glad that I had on hand the single malt he'd been drinking all night, and poured him two fingers and another one for myself. When I returned to the living room, his back was to me as he studied the glittering landscape outside my window. “Did you realize you can see the river from here, if you look just between those two buildings?” he said, turning to me.

“It's an amazing view,” he added, his eyes roaming over my face.

I smiled and went to hand him his drink, only to have him take both glasses from me. Placing them on the small table beneath the window, he pulled me into his arms.

His kiss was even more tender than the earlier one and I felt tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I wondered at them, but only momentarily, before taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

I'd never thought of my bedroom as seductive until now, as I stood before the wrought-iron bed, noting how every available crevice that surrounded it was filled with candles. I worried that Jonathan might think of me as some kind of sex goddess from all the romantic apparatus everywhere, but it seemed he couldn't take his eyes—or his hands—off of me.

Nor I, him. Within moments, my princess dress was a
pool at my feet, and Jonathan was down to shirttails and unbuttoned trousers when he stepped back, taking me in.

“So beautiful,” he said, and for a change, his words seemed tinged with anticipation.

We came together, falling onto the bed, hands roaming over each other, mouths seeking. It was as if we knew each other from long ago, the way we moved to each other's rhythm.

And when we had finally discarded all our clothes and I took in his firm, athletic build, I wanted to know him even better.

He kneeled at the bottom of the bed, pulling me down to meet his mouth, and began an act I might have called worship, were I a believer in that sort of thing.

But I felt faith building in me, and something more—damn this man was talented—and I cried out with relief, reaching for him.

He was beside me again within moments, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, finally my mouth, before he poised himself over me, rock hard and more than ready to enter, except for one thing.

“I don't have anything,” he said, “to…to protect you.”

So sweet, I thought, gazing up at him. He would think of it that way—as him protecting me. I bit my lip, mentally going over the contents of my medicine cabinet and coming up empty. I had tossed Ethan's supply, along with every other personal item he had left in my apartment, within days of our breakup. And Billy had been on the Bring Your Own Condom policy.

I began to slide down Jonathan's body, kissing his chest, his stomach, moving lower, until he stopped me. “Let me—” he hesitated. “I just want to hold you,” he said, pulling
me up his body again until we were pressed together side by side, our faces inches apart.

I worried over that for a moment—I mean, a woman likes to please a man, especially a man this pleasing—but the way he was looking at me, as if I were gift enough—eased me inside. Eased him, I realized, feeling the tension flow out of his body when, a short while later, his eyes shuttered close.

 

We slept like that, twined together, for what seemed the full night, though it was dark when I awoke alone. Well, not exactly alone.

Jonathan was still there, a shadowy figure in the dim light, though it was clear what he was doing. Pulling on his tuxedo pants, his shirt and making preparations to leave.

“Hey,” I called softly.

He turned, startled, then approached the bed, sitting where he had lain seemingly only moments before.

“Going somewhere?” I asked, trying to for a lightness I didn't feel. It meant something, this leaving. And it wasn't good. A man didn't walk away from the kind of intimacy we shared tonight unless he wasn't feeling as intimate.

“I've got a breakfast engagement at the university today.”

I blinked, peering at the clock on the bedstand. “At 4:00 a.m.?”

“Well, I've got to stop at my apartment, change my clothes…”

Though it seemed to me that he couldn't possibly spend as much time on his wardrobe as he was allowing himself, I didn't argue. If he wanted to leave, there was nothing I could do to stop him.

“I'll call you,” he said, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

Don't bother,
my mind barked back, but I bit back the retort. He didn't deserve that, I knew. He had been a perfect gentleman in all ways.

Which was why I prayed he wasn't going to turn into a typical man.

“I
t doesn't mean anything,” Angie protested. I had wrestled with my doubts about Jonathan alone, wide-eyed and restless from the bed I had not been able to pull myself from since he'd left, despite the fact that I barely slept. I lost the battle just after eleven, when Angie called to find out how my big date went. I had filled her in from top to bottom—the dazzling dinner party, the startling bathroom stall discovery and Jonathan's sad rehash of the tale on a cold sidewalk just steps outside of the campus. Somehow Jonathan's widower status only made him more of a romantic figure in Angie's mind—she started rattling off myriad Mel Gibson roles in some strange attempt to explain away all Jonathan's hesitancy as the actions of man humbled by love—and the loss of it. Not that
that
made me feel any better about things. And though I was
loath to conduct the kind of analysis Angie and I were already firmly in the midst of, I found myself suddenly, desperately, in need of answers.

“I don't know, Ange. Something seems wrong. I mean, the only men in my experience who didn't spend the night were the ones I threw out. And Bad Billy, of course.”

“Jonathan Somerfield is not Bad Billy!”

At least I had always been able to rely on Billy to call, I thought, up until the moment I pulled the plug on our relationship. Whereas Jonathan…

“If he's such a great guy, then why hasn't he called me yet?”

“Didn't you just see him, like, hours ago?”

“Look, Ange, it's almost noon already, and in my book, when a man and a woman share the kind of intimacy Jonathan and I shared last night, I think a simple phone call is in order….”

“I thought you said you didn't have sex?”

Was my best friend really this thick when it came to men? Or was she already addicted to the idea that Dr. Jonathan Somerfield was Prince Fucking Charming? “Look, the act that he performed on me is, in my opinion, even more intimate on some levels.” But with that comment came the memory that he hadn't allowed
me
to be so intimate with
him.
“The funny thing was,” I said, “he didn't let me reciprocate.”

“Wow, he
is
a dream,” Angie said.

Angie, I knew, wasn't a fan of the blow job. She did it, of course, as an act of love. Which meant Justin was probably getting more than any man who came before him.

I, of course, found it odd that a man—especially a man as rock hard as Jonathan had been last night—turned down an offer like that. Prince Charming nothing. I think I might have been sleeping with a martyr.

My call waiting beeped, and a zing of anticipation zipped through me. “I got another call….”

“You better take that one!” Angie practically shouted, apparently certain who was on the other line. “Call me tonight!” she demanded before I clicked over.

“Hello,” I said in the throatiest voice I could conjure up.

“Have you
seen
it yet?” came a strident and all-too-familiar voice.

Claudia. Disappointment pierced me. Followed by curiosity. The only time Claudia ever called me at home was during a crisis. Usually one of her own making.

“Seen what?” I asked.

“
W
magazine. The new issue is out. For some reason we didn't get our subscription copy in the office, so I picked it up on the stands this morning. I couldn't wait to see the article on Roxanne Dubrow, though I don't know why. It's a fucking disaster!”

Uh-oh. Apparently the media hadn't been kind to Roxanne Dubrow—or to Claudia herself. “I haven't seen it yet.”

“You haven't?” she cried, as if the fact that I hadn't rushed out to pick up
W
was sacrilegious. She paused, then jumped on her next thought. “It's probably available online. Oh,
of course
it's available online. I'm sure it's everywhere by now, goddammit! For the whole fucking world to see! Oh,
God.
”

A moan came out of her, that was half-animal and all Claudia. It was probably the force of that unhappy sound that sent me scurrying over to the laptop I kept on the desk in one corner of my apartment. I quickly booted up and signed on to the Internet, listening all the while to Claudia's rant about the utter injustice of it all.

By the time I got to the site and located the article, I almost agreed with her.

Chasing Youth,
the headline proclaimed.
Now that cosmetic giant Roxanne Dubrow is courting the younger market, is the party over for its older customer?

The picture below, which featured Claudia, her head thrown back and her body angling awkwardly as she attempted to keep up with Irina on the dance floor, seemed to suggest the party was in full swing. Except that Claudia's expression was a bit…twisted, as if keeping up with Irina's beat pained her. And the way her head was thrown back made her neck look like a mass of veins.

“These were the photos Phillip shot of you?” I asked.

“Of course not!” Claudia said. “Do you think I'd let that boy go
near W
magazine with a picture like
this?
” She practically growled with anger. “No, we were at some fashion awards ceremony after party in Milan. Some paparazzo must have snapped this…this travesty!”

“It's not so bad,” I hedged, though it was clear to both of us it
was
bad. “Your legs look good.” Of course, the fact that a fortysomething woman was showing so much leg in the too youthful turquoise mini she was sporting was another issue entirely.

My eye roamed the page, falling on another photo, obviously taken years earlier, featuring a gracious, smiling Dianne shaking hands with Princess Diana. Dianne looked lovely, of course, and years younger than Claudia, though at the time the photo was taken she was probably not much older than Claudia was now.

“They didn't have a more recent photo of Dianne?” I asked.

“I'm sure they did. Just as I'm sure she took a moment from her bedside vigil to call in and make sure they didn't use it. She'd be sure not to showcase the fact that she's older than I am!”

That didn't sound like the Dianne I knew, but I wasn't about to reason with Claudia, who was positively inconsolable.

“I'm ruined!” she said. “I told everyone I know about the shoot. They probably all raced to the newsstands to get it, and now they're all laughing at me. Especially Roger and that little chippy of his.”

“You told your ex-husband?”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “But I made sure Arianna Wainwright knew. You know, my old friend from Helena Rubenstein? And she's friends with Gloria Gibson, who works at Roger's firm…. Ohhh!” she said, the sound more a groan of pure pain than anything else. “Roger and Heidi will probably laugh at me all the way to the Puck building!”

“The Puck building?”

“Yes, yes,” she said irritably. “Apparently that's where they're getting married.”

“He's marrying her?”

“Yes,” she said softly, followed by a noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

“Claudia, are you—”

“I'm fine!” she insisted. “It's just that I had always…” She sighed. “I guess I had always thought of Heidi as the other woman in Roger's life. And now—now she's going to be his wife. And I'm just going to be old.”

“You're not old, Claudia.”

“Well, forty-eight isn't exactly young!” she shrieked.

I heard her suck in a breath, just as I sucked in one of my own. Forty-eight? Claudia was forty-eight? That was impossible. She had only been thirty-nine when I first started at Roxanne Dubrow….

Well, well, well.

Realizing her slip, Claudia barked out, “That's confiden
tial, you know,” as if she had just revealed some corporate secret.

Now that I knew her true age, I was impressed. Claudia looked damn good for pushing fifty. Still, I felt a stab of sympathy for her. “Forty-eight is the new thirty-eight,” I offered in consolation.

My words provided no comfort. “Old, young, what's the difference?” she cried, “I'm still going to be alone!”

 

I was beginning to think that being alone was to be my fate as well, especially after a day spent wondering if I was ever going to hear from Jonathan again. I hated that I needed so much affirmation. It really wasn't like me. So I went out to find myself again. In SoHo—specifically in Jimmy Choo, where I picked up a pair of shoes that were just sexy enough to remind me that I was a woman of means. I had nothing to worry about. But as I headed home again, anticipating a message—expecting it, really—I felt a frisson of fear. After all, we were way beyond the crucial morning after and into early evening already. There was no way in hell
I
could call
him
now and still maintain any self-respect, no matter how much I wanted to confirm that what had happened between us was more than just sex. It scared me how much more I wanted it to be.

My apartment, at least, stood witness to our romantic entanglement. Our drinks still sat abandoned on the table beneath the window. My shoes lay in a coupling of their own on the floor of my bedroom. And my dress remained in the same frothy heap it had fallen into when I stepped out of it the night before.

I shivered with the memory of the way Jonathan's eyes had drunk me in, a smile of pleasure touching my lips. Until
I remembered that I had seen that look in a man's eyes before. Desire, pure and simple. It didn't necessarily signify anything more.

I plucked up the dress, stuffing it unceremoniously in the dry cleaning bag I kept on the floor of my closet, then returned my shoes to the shelf above, placing my newly purchased pair right next to them, in the only vacant spot left. As I set about making up the bed, I wondered why I bothered—I would only be lying down in it again in a few hours.

I guess I had to maintain some sense of decorum for somebody. Why shouldn't it be me?

With that in mind, I slipped out of my clothes and into my silk lounge pants and a camisole, feeling the tension start to leave my body the moment I got out of that confining bra.

Yes, I decided, there was nothing like being home. No one to answer to. No one to cater to.

No one to have dinner with, I realized, as I headed to the kitchen.

See what happened when you invited a man into your world? The moment he was gone, you felt keenly that something was missing. Something you really hadn't needed so much before.

I decided a dinner of chocolate-covered cherries was in order, reaching for the remainder of the box I had broken out on Thanksgiving day. And a glass of red wine, I thought, feeling momentarily satisfied that I at least had a perfect companion on hand for my chocolates.

I had just settled on the sofa and was savoring my first bite of chocolate when the phone rang.

I popped the rest of the cherry into my mouth, sipped a bit of wine and contemplated letting the machine pick up, when some impulse I didn't want to examine had me reach
ing for the receiver. I assumed it was Angie, wanting the juicy details of the follow-up call she mistakenly thought I had received from Dr. Jonathan Somerfield….

Which was why I was utterly surprised to find the man himself on the other end of the line.

“Grace?” came his voice, seemingly at a distance.

“Well, hello,” I replied, struggling to keep the surprise out of my voice.

“How are you?” he said. I heard the blare of horns in the background.

“Fine,” I answered, “Where are you?”

He hesitated. “Downstairs.”

The cherry felt like it had lodged in my throat. But that was nothing compared to the thrill that sang through my veins. “Well, what are you doing down there? Come up already.”

I hung up the phone, leaping from the couch and rushing for the bathroom. One glance in the mirror was all I had time for before the buzzer rang. I rushed to the intercom and, pushing the talk button before my guest could be introduced, I said, “Send him up.”

I licked my lips, hoping to wash away any trace of chocolate I had not detected in my fleeting inspection, gave my hair a quick tousle and flung open the door to find Jonathan ambling down the hall, somehow managing to look irresistible in a herringbone blazer that clashed alarmingly with the stripes on his sweater.

In one hand, he held a bouquet of soft pink roses.

He paused once he stood before me, his eyes roaming over me in that now-familiar mix of bewilderment and desire. “I was in the neighborhood, saw these and—”

I stopped him in the midst of his halting explanation, kiss
ing him with all the confidence of a woman who knew exactly why he had come.

“Mmm,” he said, pulling back momentarily from the kiss. “Is that…chocolate?”

“A poor substitute for what I really wanted,” I said, looking into his eyes.

That finely held tension visibly left him, and I realized that he had likely worried over his decision to drop by uninvited. “I couldn't stop thinking of you,” he admitted, pulling me close again.

Finally,
I thought, leading him straight to the bedroom,
a man who's not afraid to say what he wants.

Which made me feel free to show him exactly what
I
wanted.

 

Fortunately, roses weren't the only thing Jonathan brought over that night. Because that other bulge I felt when he first embraced me turned out to be a box of condoms. A big box of condoms.

And once we began working our way through them, I discovered Jonathan Somerfield was not only a thoughtful and giving man, but a tender and generous lover.

Very generous. In fact, it was nearing 2:00 a.m. when we finally gave in to exhaustion. Well, I did at least. For just moments before I relinquished myself completely to sleep, I felt his weight shift, heard his feet hit the floor.