Scent of a Woman. Jo Leigh
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aside like so much lint. It had happened before. And before and before. That stare, that slack-jawed ogle. It had, once upon a time, felt wonderful. But after a time, it became clear that the stares weren’t about her so much as about her parts. Her hair, or her height, or her boobs, or her features. None of which she could take much credit for. She’d gotten lucky in the genetics lottery, but dammit, she wasn’t just her looks. At least, she didn’t want to be.
She headed down the aisle, wondering if she could bypass the self-help books altogether. She wanted fiction, not transformation. Definitely not soul-searching. Fiction. Make-believe. Stories.
The music swelled, and her thoughts turned to Scheherazade. The woman who’d saved her own life by spinning tales of 1,001 Nights. Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Sinbad the Sailor. Aladdin and his magic lamp.
She knew exactly what she’d ask of a genie. Not three wishes, just one. Love. The real thing. The forever kind.
Sadly, it would take a magic lamp to grant her that wish. She and love were on pretty shaky ground. Her one real shot at it had ended abysmally when she’d discovered the man she’d given her heart and soul to hadn’t been interested in her at all. Just her parts. And her money. Mostly, her money.
Sighing, she looked at a few books, but gave that up when she couldn’t focus. This was bad. Normally, she wasn’t such a goose, but dammit, seeing Katy and Lee at breakfast had made her think. They’d bitched about how awful they felt, how they wished the time would come already, how being almost nine months pregnant was anything but a picnic. Susan had laughed and made sympathetic noises, but jealousy swirled inside her, making her food taste like cardboard and her guilt swell with every breath.
She loved Katy and Lee, and their husbands Ben and Trevor. Along with Peter, they were her closest friends in the world. Her family. They’d all met in college, and had never lost touch. The six of them were still thick as thieves, and they’d gone through all the trials and tribulations of work, love and heartbreak together.
But after the other two women had become pregnant, she’d felt distanced. She’d done her best not to show it, but they knew. She was the odd man out, the third wheel. And she hated it.
She wanted a baby growing inside her. She wanted a husband who loved her for her. Instead of buying books, she should be shopping for magic lamps. And praying for a genie. Given her luck with men, her penchant for finding money-hungry jerks, magic was about her only hope.
DR. DAVID LEVINSON STARED at the array of shawls and scarves on the shelves in front of him. He should have thought this through before heading into the small boutique. He knew nothing about women’s clothing. His secretary had sworn he’d earn major bonus points by giving his sister a scarf for her birthday, but perhaps a few CDs or DVDs would be just as good.
He walked further into the shop, and lifted a silky scarf, unfolding it to reveal the intricate pattern. Too fussy for Karen. He checked the price tag and quickly folded the garment, putting it back. Eight hundred dollars? For a scarf? Jeez. He’d had no idea.
Not that his little sister wasn’t worth the money, but man, eight hundred bucks? He went to another display. Pashmina. He’d never even heard of it. The shawls were woven, and looked incredibly soft. On the counter next to them was a similar display of cashmere shawls. There didn’t seem to be much of a difference. Only the pashmina shawls were a lot more expensive.
“Close your eyes.”
David started at the voice, very close, behind his right shoulder. He began to turn, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“Go on. Close your eyes.”
The voice sounded as silky as the cashmere. As sensual as silk. But close his eyes?
“It’s all right,” she whispered again, this time so close he felt warm breath on the back of his neck.
He obeyed, and the idea that he obeyed without knowing who she was, or what she intended, was as much of a rush as the scent of the woman behind him. He felt her move, and it was all he could do not to peek. She was tall, that much he knew because her breath—
Something brushed his cheek and he jumped, but again, her hand on his shoulder made him still.
“Don’t think. Don’t analyze. Just let yourself feel,” she whispered.
The material caressed the side of his face, delicate, soft, lush, like the skin on the inside of a woman’s thigh. Then it was gone, and just as he was about to complain something slightly different brushed his right cheek. Cooler. Slightly thicker. A more earthy scent.
As the cloth slid across his face, he became aware of the effect this exercise was having in a completely different part of his body. He was aroused. Nothing life threatening. Not yet. But between the feel of the cashmere and the mystery of the woman, he was growing more uncomfortable by the second.
The material was withdrawn. He hesitated, waiting to see if there was more.
“You can open your eyes now.”
Again, he obeyed. She was directly in front of him, smiling coyly with perfect lips. He’d been correct, she was tall. But his imagination hadn’t been up to the task of picturing the rest of her.
Pale blond hair in a graceful tangle, held by a tortoiseshell clip. Wide blue eyes under arched brows. Stunning.
“Which did you like better?”
He blinked.
“The right cheek or the left?”
“Oh.”
Her smile broadened, revealing even white teeth.
“The left,” he said.
“That’s pashmina. The wool is from Nepal, taken from the Himalayan goat. Finer than cashmere. This one,” she held up a black shawl, “is an eighty-twenty blend.”
“Okay.”
Her laughter made his predicament worsen. He shifted a bit, but that didn’t help. His slacks were getting tighter by the second.
Her gaze darted to his left hand, then back up to his face. “For your wife?”
“Sister.”
“How thoughtful.”
“She’s a good kid.”
The woman nodded slowly, never taking her eyes from his. It was blatantly sexual. There was no misinterpreting her intention. She knew what her gaze was doing to him.
“So, what’s it going to be?”
“Pardon?”
She held up the shawl in her left hand. “Pashmina?” Then she lifted her right hand. “Or cashmere?”
“You’re good at this,” he said.
“At what?”
“Your job. I hope you work on commission.”
“I don’t work here.”
She’d done it again. Surprised him. Nothing much surprised him these days. Being a psychiatrist in New York tended to jade a person. “And yet you know about Himalayan goats.”
She laughed again, turning up the heat. Intentionally? Yes. Oh, yes.
“I’m a virtual font of insignificant data,” she said.
“I am to real knowledge what an onion is to a martini.”
He reached over and took the pashmina shawl from her hand, letting his fingers brush hers. Mistake. The somewhat vague threat in his pants turned dangerous. He couldn’t remember the last time this had happened to him. College? Probably. Not that he didn’t get excited by certain women. But he rarely reacted in such a volatile fashion. He used the shawl to cover his embarrassment. She might know that she was turning him on. She didn’t need to know to what degree.
“I imagine you know quite a bit, Ms….”