You Call This Romance!?: You Call This Romance!? / Are You For Real. Barbara Daly
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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.”