Still So Hot!. Serena Bell
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shrugged, and because she had pride, she’d said, “When I feel like it,” but in her heart, she’d known she’d always play with him.
That night she’d been pretty sure he felt about her the same way she felt about him. There were moments of prolonged eye contact and real flirtation, and when he had boxed up his game and gotten up to go, there was a long, awkward silence that afterward she thought of as a kiss that hadn’t happened. Over the next few weeks, they had become friends, playing Scrabble almost every night, roller-skating, seeing movies, frequenting the same drunken parties, studying together. Nothing had happened between them, and soon she had begun to understand Brett’s pattern. He liked to date beautiful women. Not cute or pretty or striking in an unusual way, but model-beautiful, the handful of women at their college who were truly glamorous. Or maybe “date” wasn’t the right word. He had collected them. He had wooed them and had worn them on his arm briefly and let them pass out of his life again, as though they were bits of flotsam floating by on a river. She had watched, and she had alternated between ferocious envy and gratitude that she wasn’t the one being used and discarded.
From the first moment Brett Jordan had strolled down the dorm hallway with his Scrabble game in hand and poked his scruffy, beautiful head into her room, she hadn’t been objective.
She wouldn’t lie about that, not to herself and not to her client.
She looked up and saw with a jolt of relief that the flight attendant was headed toward them with a tray of champagne flutes. That would improve things. Not that they could really get much worse.
She collected two flutes from the tray and handed one to Celine. “No,” Elisa finally answered.
And when Celine tilted her head quizzically, she shook her own and said, “You could safely say I’m not objective about Brett.”
4
“CELINE! CELINE!” PAPARAZZI and reporters shouted.
Elisa was still reeling from the bumpy and terrifying descent onto the St. Barts’s airstrip. It would be way too generous to call this an airport. Runway ten—the pilot had referred to it with affection, for reasons she couldn’t fathom—ended in a shock of white beach and aquamarine water.
He’d warned them that the plane’s safety system would protest the landing, but that didn’t stop Elisa’s heart from practically fleeing her chest when he dived over a hill and the warning system blared “Pull up!” She’d held her breath for the entire length of the runway while brakes squealed and flaps flapped, convinced that they’d miss the runway and land either on the highway or in the water. She’d been sure they’d have to climb out of the sea to start their trip.
“Celine!”
Elisa counted maybe ten yammering entertainment buzzards. Pretty good for a minor celebrity, and she felt a twinge of pride. They were here because of the buzz she’d made.
And then the pride deflated like a leaky balloon.
What a waste now, thanks to Brett.
They’d disembarked the plane into a brilliantly sunny, warm paradise, with white sailboats in the harbor, red-roofed houses dotting green hills and palm fronds waving in a light breeze. It had taken them just a few minutes to clear customs and collect their baggage, and now they stepped out of the protective atmosphere of the single-gate airport and into Celine’s world. Media and clamor.
“Celine! Tell us why you’re doing this! What’s a weekend dating boot camp?”
No—Elisa wouldn’t let her work be a waste. She would find a way to make the most of this moment. She’d come this far, and she was not going to back quietly away. Until the weekend was over, this was her show, her chance.
She and Brett and Celine pushed through the minimob. She kept a hand on Celine’s back, moving her forward. Haven Hoyt had carefully coached Elisa on managing this moment.
“Don’t stop walking or they’ll pin you,” Haven had said. “And for God’s sake, smile. Every single second is a photo op, and the last thing you want is a photo of you with a grimace on your face plastered all over the internet.”
They were almost to the cab, a soft-top Jeep Wrangler, a tough-looking jungle car in a sea of cutesy Smart cars. The cab would ferry them straight to the hotel, and then hotel security would take over the work of holding the media off Celine. Elisa’s smile was starting to hurt, but she remembered Haven’s words and kept it in place.
A microphone crowded her face. “Where’d they meet?” It was a blond woman Elisa vaguely recognized from the evening entertainment shows.
“On the town.” Ooh, she was pleased with her answer. So much better than “in a drugstore.”
“Were you with her?”
“She did it herself, using techniques I taught her. Teach a woman to fish...”
Laughter from the peanut gallery. That was good, right? Her smile was real now. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her videographer, Morrow, hanging back from the pack, and he gave her a thumbs-up. She liked him a lot, and his previous clients, including some heavy hitters, had raved about his work.
The blond woman was a bulldog. “Is it serious?”
What had Haven said? Every question is an opportunity. “They’ve only known each other a few days. But who knows? If things go well, maybe she won’t need me after this weekend.”
More laughter. She looked over at Celine who was smiling brilliantly. Brett’s expression didn’t match. But he was a guy, so instead of looking grim, he looked serious and thoughtful. Authoritative.
That jaw. The fact that he hadn’t shaved this morning made her want to test the texture of his stubble with her tongue.
Her smile had slipped slightly, and she tugged it back on.
“If she’s only known him a few days, why’d she bring him to the Caribbean?”
Excellent question. I wish I knew. “Destination dates are becoming very popular. Rendezvous encourages its clients to pick exciting locations even for first dates. And of course Celine will meet many men and have a whole variety of dates this weekend.”
She’d even gotten her business’s name in without sounding like a total tool. They were at the Jeep, sliding across the backseat, Celine, then Brett, then Elisa, and the relief was as profound as if they’d entered a decontamination chamber. She slammed the door behind them, and the cab pulled away to a chorus of flashes.
“You were great!” Celine said.
“Very smooth.” Brett’s tone was so dry that once again she couldn’t tell if he was mocking her.
She snuck a look at him. In the center seat, he’d leaned toward the windshield and was staring out at the green, brown and blue world. The road was narrow, and people kept squeezing past them in the opposite direction at ungodly speeds. She could blame the rapid trip of her pulse on that, not on the hard length of his thigh pressed against hers.
If he leaned back, his shoulder would trap hers against the backrest. When she’d ridden in cabs with him years ago in New York, the middle seat had kept a safe foot of distance between them.
She was breathless from triumph and hurrying across the tarmac, not to mention the scary driving. The amount of space Brett took up in the cab had nothing to do with it. Neither did the heat pouring off him or the scent of fresh male sweat and that still familiar Old Spice.
She certainly wasn’t breathless from imagining what that hard thigh would feel like, eased between hers, or because she could remember the exact silken slip of his tongue against hers.
He’s your client’s date.
She inched toward the window until there was a narrow strip of space between their bodies. And began to work on slowing her breathing.
Her