Real Women Don't Wear Size 2 (26 page)

They held hands and laughed while working their way through the booths, enjoying each other’s company as if they were dating . . . or had been married for years while managing to hold on to that original spark, which was exactly what he foresaw in Clarise. A woman to live with, laugh with, love with. Their morning—correction, afternoon, since she’d slept until two—had been perfect. Sharing beignets, then sharing each other. And now, they casually shopped for her grandmother’s treats. Moving from the unique excitement of the bedroom to the normalcy of the street hadn’t proved that much of a switch. He loved being with Clarise. Hot and heated, writhing in the sheets, or holding her hand and chatting through what locals termed the “Latin Quarter.” They felt right together, in both areas.

“Oh, this is perfect.” Clarise lifted a shiny silver pirate’s sword from a table draped in purple velvet. “What do you think?”

“I think it’d help you hold on to the memory,” he said.

She lowered it and gave him a smile that went beyond her curved lips and spread to her eyes. “What about you? Would it help you hold on to the memory?”

He cleared his throat. “I won’t need anything. I’ll remember every moment of my time with you.”

She laughed as though he weren’t serious, as though he were merely joking. He wasn’t, and before the trip ended, he vowed she would realize that. Clarise motioned for the booth’s attendant and paid for the sword, then she stared at it a moment before adding it to her bag. “I won’t forget either,” she whispered. Then she walked to the next booth and didn’t look back. But Ethan was fairly certain, even without seeing those telltale eyes, that he’d heard a definite hint of regret in the simple statement.
Regret.
Regret that it had happened? Or that it would end?

“Granny Gert wants one of these too,” Clarise said, draping a long red swath of fabric over one shoulder. Her expression had lightened, and she’d apparently moved on from her earlier statement.

Ethan decided not to press the issue. Yet. They’d talk about what had happened between them, what was still happening between them, before they left Tampa. And he’d ensure his future with Clarise, because he sure as hell wasn’t having a future without her.

“Let me,” he said, stepping forward to pay the man behind the table.

“Granny Gert’s rather independent. She gave me the money to buy her things, but it’s sweet of you to offer.”

“Tell her I insisted,” Ethan said, accepting his change. “And that I’m buying it because I enjoy the company of her granddaughter.”

She gave him a timid grin and nodded. “All right.” Fingering the shimmering fabric, she added, “We should think about these in accessories at the store. The scarves we have now are more sophisticated, I know, but this could turn a professional dress into an evening ensemble, don’t you think? Several of the new spring arrivals in the Women’s Department would benefit from a sash like this.” She held the red fabric to her cheek. “It’s well made too. Chiffon silk, isn’t it?”

The woman behind the table grinned. “Yes, it is. My mother taught me how to weave it. We color the fabric as well with a natural dye. My mother learned the technique when she was a girl in Bangladesh.”

Ethan’s attention piqued. The uniqueness of the scarf—or sash, as the case might be—would definitely appeal to Eubanks customers, yet he would have missed the allure without his savvy sidekick. “Do you have a card?” he asked the woman in the booth.

“And would you be interested in selling these in large quantities for retail?” Clarise added.

“Why, yes,” the woman answered, her face practically glowing with anticipation.

“I’ll get back to you within two weeks,” Ethan confirmed.

“Here. Take a few more,” the woman said, handing him a purple one embellished with tiny gold tassels, an emerald one with a marbled tint and a pearly white one accented with a crimson rose print.

“I’ll take them,” Ethan said, “but not without paying for them.” He fished more bills from his wallet and handed them to the smiling lady.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” she said, “but thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And you will hear from him soon,” Clarise informed. “He keeps his promises.”

The woman nodded, apparently overjoyed at the potential of selling her scarves beyond the Latin Quarter. Ethan was overjoyed too. Not only had Clarise helped him find a unique product for the store without the assistance of a fashion buyer, but he’d also heard her verify that she saw him as a man who “keeps his promises.” Good. Because soon, he’d promise her the moon. He only hoped she’d take it. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he guided her through the remaining booths, while she described her unconventional grandmother.

“She loves colors. Bright, bold colors,” Clarise explained, fingering a purple blouse with a bright red collar. “Most people wouldn’t think this would work for a woman with a lot of”—her voice faltered, but then she grinned, and added saucily—“shape. But it’s actually very flattering with curves. And the color says she isn’t hiding from her God-given assets.”

“Not hiding is a very good thing,” Ethan said, placing a fingertip against the edge of Clarise’s magenta tank top, then trailing it down her arm to her wrist.

She tilted her face toward his. “All this time, I’ve been helping other women show off what they had, but I haven’t followed my own advice.” Those big doe eyes widened, the way they had each Friday afternoon during their afternoon coffees, when she’d made a statement and awaited his response. He wouldn’t let her down now. She needed to hear the truth, and he needed to give it.

“You have no reason at all to hide behind clothing and no reason to confine yourself to black and navy.” Her colors of choice, he’d say, until that red dress at the Christmas party, then again this week with her “setting the wild side free” party. “And I agree that these blouses are perfect for women with lots of”—he moved the back of his fingertips to her right cheek, then slowly slid them down her neck, along her collarbone, then down her side, letting them brush the beautiful outer swell of her breast—“shape,” he continued, while Clarise’s eyes flitted closed and her mouth formed a soft smile.

“I love,” she whispered, then those brown eyes opened, “this.”

Ethan moved his hand to the small of her back and pulled her close, then tenderly kissed her. He’d thought those first two words had been leading somewhere else, but he wasn’t overly disappointed. She was beginning to feel it too, that connection beyond sex, and he reveled in witnessing each step of her progress.

“Do you want that top?” the man tending the booth asked, his voice a little louder than necessary as he tried to penetrate the sensual energy zinging between Clarise and Ethan.

“Yes,” she said, turning back toward the vibrant table. “I’ll take it. Oh, and these too.” She fingered a set of shiny purple-and-red bracelets displayed beside the blouse. “Granny Gert loves bracelets. Anything that makes her jingle when she walks,” Clarise added, which made the salesman grin. She giggled in return.

Ethan loved the sound of her laugh. It was real and honest and fun. Like Clarise.

She added the items to the growing bag of goodies for her grandmother. Then they left the street vendors and headed back toward their condo.

“You and your sweetie have a fight?” The elderly woman tilted her head, and the corners of her mouth dipped down. “You seemed so happy the other night.”

Clarise looked up to see a woman she vaguely remembered. Then she blinked and realized this was one half of the couple that had been standing outside the elevator that first night, when she’d been snockered and Ethan had taken her back to their room to take care of her. Then later, to fulfill the first item on her list. She held back the tears. “No, we didn’t.”

The woman’s silver-haired counterpart then crossed the lobby to join his wife. He was carrying two cups of orange juice and handed one to the woman. Then he looked at Clarise. “You didn’t sleep last night, little lady?”

Clarise twisted in the chair that had been her haven for her private “pity party,” as Grandma Gertrude called it, and looked at the big grandfather clock perched in the center of the resort lobby. Five-thirty . . . in the morning. And she’d been sitting here under a ficus tree for, what, two hours? Ethan would probably wake soon and realize she’d slipped out of bed. She really should go back, but she wasn’t ready to face that onslaught of emotion again. Not yet.

“What did he do to you?” the older woman continued. She pushed a branch aside to move closer, close enough to wedge her bony little hip on the edge of Clarise’s seat.

Clarise had picked this shady spot, beneath the large tree, because she wanted privacy, wanted to be alone with her thoughts—something that was fairly difficult to pull off with Gasparilla taking place in the city. But she had, for a while. Since 3:00
A
.
M
., in fact, when she left Ethan sleeping and found her way to the lobby, her personal sanctuary, to think about what he’d done and to try to figure out how to deal with it. So far, she didn’t have any answers.

“Tell me, sweetie,” the older woman urged. “Maybe we can help.”

“I can’t,” Clarise said then sniffed, and a tear spilled free. What would she say, anyway? That he’d made her feel loved? That she couldn’t enjoy their time together now, for her fear of it ending when they returned home? That she’d felt more desirable, more sexual, and more deserving of someone like Ethan, than she’d ever felt in her life—and that the thought of the dream ending made her cry? “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I can’t tell you.”

“Here, hon,” the older man said. He reached around his wife and handed Clarise the other cup of juice. “Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

Clarise swallowed, sniffed again. “Thank you.”

“Come on, Esther. I think she wants to be alone, dear.” He gently took his wife’s arm and eased her from Clarise’s chair. Then he smiled at Clarise. “You and your young man remind us of our granddaughter and her new husband.”

“Yes,” Esther said, “and we want them—and both of you—to be as happy as we are.”

“Thank you,” Clarise said, her throat closing in. She lifted the cup of juice and sipped to keep from audibly sobbing. She wanted to be happy too, and she was, but she also knew it wouldn’t last forever.

The couple left, presumably to visit the street vendors before the parades got started this morning. Clarise watched them leave, then sank farther into the chair beneath the tree and hoped she could calm her rattled state quickly, in time to return to their room before Ethan woke. But how would she deal with the bizarre situation? How could she tell him that she’d fallen, completely and totally, in love with the guy who was her best friend and her boss, for goodness sake? And the man who’d been willing to fulfill her sexual fantasies without the burden of commitment. Was it a burden?

“Commitment isn’t on the list,”
she’d said. Damn, why hadn’t she scribbled it somewhere on that paper? She closed her eyes and remembered yesterday, returning from the Latin Quarter and having another round of frantic, frenzied sex. They’d paused long enough to order room service, then sat on the balcony and enjoyed the parade as it passed outside. Several men on the top tier of the floats crooned for Clarise to display the Robinson Jewels, but she’d politely declined, knowing Ethan would have no part of it. He considered them “taken,” as he’d told the guy in the elevator two nights ago. Of course, he was only referring to their being taken temporarily. Dang it. Personally, she considered them, and the rest of her, taken too. By Ethan. And not merely in Gasparilla. How was she supposed to turn off this “thing” they had going? The way he made her feel, it had to be more than mere sex, didn’t it? Wasn’t he feeling it too? And how, if you ever experience something like this, do you live your life without it?

Last night, the parade crew had enjoyed her shimmy enough to bestow Clarise with a healthy booty of beads, which Ethan found
extremely
useful. She shivered at the memory. Ethan, slowly undressing her and guiding her to the bed, then draping the glittering, cool beads over her naked body, covering her completely, before removing them with painstaking care, letting each round sphere glide across her flesh, while she waited, breathlessly, for Ethan Eubanks to bare her body. Then bare her soul. Because
that’s
what happened last night. After the parade, and after he’d teased every sensitive nerve ending with the endless strands of Gasparilla necklaces, Ethan made love to Clarise.
Made love.
Plain and simple. Nothing about their bonding last night had been mere sex. He’d held her, caressed her, talked to her throughout their mating. They’d truly joined, not merely seeking physical satisfaction, but longing for the emotional bond between lifetime lovers. She’d felt it. What if he hadn’t?

“There you are!” Rachel’s voice broke through the memory with a blatant slap of reality.

Clarise dropped her cup to the floor, and the remaining orange juice spilled freely over the white marble tiles.

“Look what you made her do, Rachel,” Jesilyn said. “Don’t worry, Clarise. I’ll go get some napkins.” Within seconds, Jesilyn had cleaned the spill, and Rachel had bullied her way into the chair with Clarise.

“Scoot,” she demanded, squirming her skinny bottom next to Clarise’s rounded one. “And give us all the details.”

Clarise swallowed. This was
not
happening. “Details?”

“About you and Ethan, silly,” Rachel continued.

Jesilyn tossed the wet napkins in a nearby trash receptacle, then returned frowning at Rachel. “You don’t know if there’s anything to tell.”

“Their phone was off the hook, Jesi,” Rachel said, cocking one brow for effect. She twisted awkwardly to look at Clarise. “Isn’t that right? We were trying to see if the two of you wanted to take in the parade with the gang, but we couldn’t get through. The lobby clerk refused to give us your room number and only offered to keep ringing you for us, but of course, since your phone was off the hook, we never got through. I can’t believe we forgot to get your room number,” she added, barely pausing between words to breathe.