Dear Love Doctor (22 page)

“Twenty minutes from now,” she said, circling one hand over his heart.

“Ten minutes from here to Delmonico’s. That leaves time for ten minutes of heaven.” He nuzzled her neck and reached around to the back of her dress.

Daffy smiled. He’d find no zipper in this cleverly designed outfit. She put a hand on each slender shoulder strap and smiled. After a gentle tug on the bows, the silk confection slid to the floor.

Hunter whistled and stepped back, kicking off his shoes and tearing at his tie. “That dress is a man’s best friend.”

And those were the last words either of them spoke for nine minutes and fifty-nine seconds, until, flushed with passion and satisfaction, Hunter lifted Daffy off him and said with a smile, “Time to go!”

Other people’s families had always fascinated Hunter. When he was a child, other kids’ fathers had been his most intense source of interest. He’d imagine himself the son of first this one and then another. At some point before he reached his teens, he concluded not having a father wasn’t such a bad thing. That was after he got to know Lucy and she told him how her father came home drunk once a month and with the same regularity beat up her mom.

Leaving his Jeep in the care of the none-too-impressed valet at the restaurant, Hunter held the door open for Daffy, gave her a reassuring smile, and prepared himself to meet the Landrys.

The maître d’ fell over himself greeting Daffy. Several heads turned and Hunter caught more than one well-dressed couple staring openly at Daffy. The stir didn’t seem to phase Daffy at all. She reacted with regal cordiality, a side of her new to Hunter.

He’d seen her splashed with water from head to foot and laughing like a child. He’d devoured the sight of her in sexual ecstasy, murmuring in breathy gasps that drove him wild. He’d admired her holding her own with Thelma, and watched somewhat nervously as she exchanged barbs with Aloysius, but this polite and I’m-better-than-thou side of her he’d never seen.

It was a side that nettled him, that reminded him of Emily, the queen holding court.

And then Daffy turned and smiled at him, a smile so sweet and sincere it chased every doubt from his mind. So that only he could hear, she whispered, “Everyone’s nice to the society photographer.”

It was as if she’d read his mind, detected his doubts. And answered them.

Hunter brushed the back of her hand as they headed for the table. Of course Daffy had had to learn to discourage zest for publicity in all forms and fashions. He’d noticed the other day, when he’d gone along to some charity dinner dance, that several of the women preened openly when they caught sight of Daffy and her camera.

Wishing he still didn’t care quite so much about those wounds of the past, Hunter glanced around at the well-fed and pampered diners in this expensive restaurant and wondered how much money and time it would take before he felt like someone who belonged.

The maître d’ paused before a table that held center stage in the dining room. Two couples, one older, one younger, were already seated. Hunter recognized Jonni, of course, and her husband. And he didn’t have to be told the other fair flower was the woman who’d given birth to the twins. If there’d been a little dimmer light, she might have been mistaken for their only slightly older sister.

Daffy, under her breath, said, “It’s show time, folks,” and to the silver-haired man rising from his chair, she said, “Hi, Daddy.”

The two exchanged hugs. When Daffy stepped back, she said, “Happy birthday, Mother,” before taking the chair Hunter pulled out for her. To the table at large, she said, “Meet Hunter James.”

Hunter said his hellos and sat down, vaguely surprised Daffy had added no description after his name. What was his role here? Business associate? Friend? Casual acquaintance? Date for the evening to round out the numbers?

Jonni, seated to his right, turned and touched his forearm. “We’re so glad you could come tonight. I’ve wanted to get to know you better. Daffy says such wonderful things about you.”

Daffy was talking to her father, which left David to pay court to the birthday honoree. “You do know how to set a guy’s mind at ease,” Hunter told Jonni half jokingly.

Jonni smiled. “These family affairs make Daffy nervous. She’ll be fine once she settles into the rhythm.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And remind me to thank you again for that first meeting.”

“You two keep up that whispering and Daffy and David are going to get jealous.”

Hunter turned his head. Mrs. Landry was glaring at him, yet her lips were smiling. Nice. Less than five minutes and he’d alienated Daffy’s mother.

“I never get jealous,” David pronounced, signaling the sommelier to his side.

“That’s true,” Daffy said. “I do, but not of Jonni.”

Mr. Landry glanced up from his menu. “Shall we start with one of each of the appetizers?”

“Darling, that’s so much food,” Mrs. Landry said.

“Great,” Daffy said.

Everyone else nodded, so Hunter did, too.

Mr. Landry gave an instruction to a hovering waiter, as did David to the wine waiter. Drinks appeared on the table, as did a beautifully wrapped small package, quickly joined by another.

Daffy stared at the gifts beside her mother’s place and Hunter realized from her expression she’d never even thought of bringing a present.

“For me?” Mrs. Landry pretended surprise. She patted her husband’s hand and bestowed a dazzling smile on Jonni. She never once glanced in Daffy’s direction, until Jonni said, “That’s from both of us, Mother.”

“Why, how nice. Two of you and one present. Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

Daffy put her hands into her lap and Hunter saw her fold them tightly together. He wouldn’t be surprised if she left nail marks in her palms, as hard as she was squeezing.

Without thinking, he reached over and eased one hand free from that grip, covering her hand with his own, resting there in her lap. Let them think whatever they wanted. His mission was to protect Daffy.

The thought gentled him, and he smiled into her eyes. She looked surprised and slightly wary. Hunter could understand that; Mrs. Landry was a far cry from his mother. Thelma spoke her mind, but always in love. Even when she had a sharp word to say, Hunter knew she spoke with reasoned judgment, because she wanted what was best for him. Daffy’s mother, on the other hand, struck him as someone who would compete with her own daughter over a man, and if she lost the contest, would prove herself a poor sport.

Daffy shifted her hand. Hunter kept his hold and after a long moment he felt her hand relax in his. And then she smiled back at him.

Which made the world an all-right place as far as Hunter was concerned.

22

W
ith Hunter by her side, Daffy found dinner with her parents a much more manageable experience. Sure, her mother needled and annoyed her, and her father doted fondly on everyone, and David spouted facts and figures, and Jonni agreed with her usual sweet smile. All in all, they accepted Hunter’s presence without any overt curiosity and, to her relief, the anticipated criticism.

All the while, through the appetizers, the main course, the decisions over dessert, Hunter was there beside her.

Since the moment he’d taken her hand, she’d felt safe. Watching Jonni nodding as David explained why something the city council had just done was utter foolishness, Daffy wondered if that was how Jonni felt with David.

Safe.

Hunter brushed the back of her hand and she looked up. Everyone else at the table stared at her, including the hovering waiter.

“Something sweet?” Hunter said, then added, “For dessert?”

She must have been lost in her thoughts for some time. “I feel like indulging myself,” she said. “Crème brûlée, please.”

Her mother made a face Daffy knew indicated disapproval but didn’t press it. Her mother never had anything but fresh fruit for dessert. Well, she had the figure to prove the wisdom of that, but Daffy had the metabolism to eat anything she wanted. So she smiled at her mother, for the first time that evening, and said, “I adore crème brûlée.”

Her dad, ever the peacemaker, turned to Hunter. “So how did you and my daughter meet?”

Daffy looked from Hunter to Jonni and back.

Hunter placed his arm on the back of Daffy’s chair, for all appearances a man at ease with his surroundings. Impressed by his composure in facing the Landrys, Daffy waited to see how he would describe their “blind date” arranged by Jonni.

“Actually, it was by accident. I was pretty hot under the collar over some silly column and I went to
The Crescent
to see if I couldn’t figure out just which meddling busybody called themselves the Love Doctor.”

Daffy froze. She didn’t move even her eyelashes. She held her breath and her toes quit wiggling around inside her shoes.

Her mother, in a way only Marianne Livaudais Landry was capable of, given that Hunter had his arm around her own daughter, leaned forward and, with that breathless come-hither expression of hers, said, “And why were you upset with the columnist?”

Hunter hesitated and Daffy noticed that and wondered why, even in her shocked state. Finally he replied, “Over something written about a friend.”

Which column? Trying to remember some of her pithier replies, Daffy realized it could have been almost any one of them. Forcing her lips to move, she said, in what she hoped was a casual voice, “It must have been pretty strong.”

Hunter laughed, a laugh with a hard edge to it. Jonni’s expression revealed her concern. Daffy waited for her own smart-mouth words to be cited.

“Well, let’s just say,” Hunter continued, “that to have one’s relationship potential described as Diagnosis Terminal is insulting, let alone coming from someone who has no idea what she’s talking about.”

Oh, my goodness gracious
. Daffy’s coffee cup, halfway to her lips, stalled in midair. She managed to guide the cup back to the saucer and then she yanked her hand down to her lap. The words swam in her mind. She saw the signature line and she gulped for air, hoping everyone else was too riveted by the discussion to notice she was about to go into cardiac arrest.

Loyal But Lonesome in Ponchatoula.

Daffy blinked, trying to conjure the rest of the letter. Her readers used initials for the people they wrote about. What initial had been in that letter? J? L? No . . .

H.

He was always popular . . . he goes out with other women in New Orleans . . .

Diagnosis Terminal.

She’d written those words—words that she’d really intended for herself—about Hunter. Ever since her first relationship, she’d done crazy things to scare away her suitor of the month, and now she’d orchestrated one of her worst stunts—without even meaning to.

“How do you know the doctor’s a she?” Her dear, logical dad asked that question.

Hunter shrugged. “I can just see her, some prune-faced spinster who’s never found love on her own, setting herself up as an expert on everyone else’s love life.”

David nodded. “I agree with Hunter.”

“Well, prune-faced or not,” Marianne said, “everyone reads that column. And not because the author is nice. The doctor just does such a lovely job of skewering silly people who don’t have the good manners to keep their problems to themselves.”

“I don’t think it’s meant to be mean,” Jonni said. “It’s meant to be common sense, realistic advice.”

“Yes, for people who don’t have anything more meaningful to read,” David pronounced, looking as bored as Daffy was shocked. Any conversation he didn’t control bored him, though.

“But no one knows who the author is,” Marianne said, “so why did you think you could find out?”

Good question. Daffy eyed her mother with some respect.

Hunter shrugged.

It was Jonni who said, “You thought you’d get someone who worked there to divulge the identity.”

Hunter nodded, looking somewhat embarrassed.

The waiter delivered the plates.

Daffy stared down at the beautifully browned crème brûlée, the gingery brown sugar gleaming from the pass under the broiler. She made no move to reach for her fork.

Hunter had charmed her to find out the identity of the columnist so he could wreak revenge.

Sure, he’d remembered her from the Orphan’s Club fund-raiser, but that alone might never have prompted him to ask her—or Jonni, who he
thought
was her—out. And that first meeting at the coffee shop, with that bet that he could win any woman in thirty days—why, oh, why hadn’t she listened to her own warning systems then?

Daffy never cried.

But at that moment she was experiencing a very blurred view of her crème brûlée.

“Tell us, Daffodil, do you know who writes that column?” Marianne toyed with her fresh raspberries, her eyes alight.

Wouldn’t she just love to know
. Daffy shook her head.

“So, Hunter, what’s your plan to discover the author’s identity?” David chimed in.

Daffy realized Hunter had moved his arm from the back of her chair to around her shoulders.

“I really don’t care anymore,” he said. “Now that I’ve met Daffy, who cares about some dumb love doctor?”

“Now
that’s
romantic,” Jonni said.

David looked at his wife. He set down his brandy snifter and put his arm around her.

Daffy couldn’t meet Hunter’s eyes. He said all the right things, but did he really mean them? And even if he was as sincere as a priest professing his calling, how could she tell him the truth about that column?

“Daffy, what a pleasure to see you.”

She had to look up then, as she recognized the dear and familiar voice of her childhood friend Oliver Gotho. Close beside him stood his wife, Barbara, whose hand was tucked snugly in his. And if Daffy wasn’t mistaken, the glowing and gorgeous Barbara looked a little bit pregnant.

At that moment Daffy couldn’t have wished for a better sight—or for a better-timed interruption. Scattering Hunter’s hand from her shoulder, she rose and hugged both Oliver and Barbara, then turned to introduce them to Hunter. Everyone else, of course, they’d met.

Hunter stood, too, and shook hands.

Grateful for the diversion, he exchanged a few words of greeting with the obviously happy couple. With a touch of envy that caught him by surprise, he noted the way they held hands and finished sentences for each other.

He and Daffy sat back down. Oliver and Barbara looked at each other as if exchanging silent questions and agreeing on the answers. Intrigued by the smoothness of their silent communication, Hunter wondered how they achieved that miracle, a miracle he craved for himself.

Correction. For Daffy and himself.

He reached for her hand. She didn’t seem as willing to receive his touch as she had earlier, but she rested her hand in his.

“We won’t keep you from your dessert,” Oliver said, “but Barbara and I would like to share our wonderful news.” He glanced at his wife and said, “We’re not only celebrating our anniversary, but we recently found out we’re going to be parents.”

A round of congratulations came from everyone at the table. Daffy’s words were a bit more subdued than Hunter would have expected and he wondered whether the long dinner with her parents had taken its toll on her. Best to whisk her away as soon as possible. Oddly enough, in his concern for Daffy, he’d forgotten his own misgivings about fitting in with her family.

The happy couple said their good-byes and wound their way through the tables toward the door.

Hunter stared after them.

He wanted what they had.

And he wanted it with Daffy.

He didn’t want to pursue and bed and win Daffy, then move on to the next challenge. He wanted to win her and keep her. Loving Daffy would be one of the greatest challenges of his life, of that he had no doubt. And he had no doubt that loving her would be the smartest and best decision he’d ever made.

Because he did love her.

Hunter stared down at his untouched dessert, his favorite chocolate cake. How had it happened? He’d meant to enjoy the chase, to flirt and pursue and tantalize.

He hadn’t meant to make it forever.

But somehow she’d changed all that.

He noticed Daffy’s crème brûlée, as perfectly arranged as it had been when the waiter delivered it. She, too, had lost her appetite. It was funny in how many ways the two of them were alike, even while they were so different. They’d grown up on opposite sides of the social tracks. If he hadn’t made his fortune, no doubt the two of them never would have crossed paths. But they had, and that circumstance had changed his life.

Oh, yes, she’d changed him—but would she choose him?

For the first time that week, Hunter didn’t spend the night at Daffy’s. He had some of his designers working all night on a special feature that had experienced some bugs. He wanted to check on their progress and he had to fly to Salt Lake City the next morning.

Hoping she’d say, “Come over no matter what time it is,” he broke the news as they waited for the valet to bring around his Jeep. Her parents had driven off in their Mercedes and David and Jonni had just pulled away in their more Americanized wealth wagon, the latest-model Cadillac. Obviously he had a lot to learn about behaving like a rich guy. But then, he thought with a glance at his watch, he’d always followed his own path.

As his Jeep appeared from around the corner, Hunter waited to see if Daffy would respond as he hoped, but instead, she only nodded.

“Dinner wasn’t so bad, was it?” She’d withdrawn and he didn’t know why. Here he was again, facing those uncharted waters of communication between a man and a woman. Well, he’d tried it once before with Daffy and it hadn’t been so scary.

She gave him a brief smile. “It wasn’t nearly as bad as usual, thanks to your support, and to Jonni pretending her present was from both of us.”

The valet jumped out, then ran around and opened the passenger door. Across the way, a streetcar rumbled down St. Charles Avenue and with a screech of brakes drowned out whatever else Daffy was starting to say as she climbed in.

Hunter tipped the valet and slid behind the wheel. Daffy’s hands were folded in her lap.

He could take only so much withdrawal from Daffy. He needed their sense of connection. Not only needed it, but welcomed it, thrived on it. After he merged into traffic and made the turn to head back uptown, he said gently, “Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Want to tell me what’s wrong?
As she considered Hunter’s question, Daffy clasped her hands even more tightly together. How to admit to him it rankled her that he’d asked her out only to ply her for information. How to admit she wanted to trust him—wanted that more than she was comfortable acknowledging—but was simply afraid to. He’d said he’d been acting on behalf of a friend in seeking the Love Doctor, but Daffy knew the truth. He’d been the victim of that letter, not some imaginary friend.

Her thoughts raced and dove in her head. Yet she couldn’t find the words, or maybe it was the courage, to share those thoughts. Before she knew it, they were in front of her house. Hunter still had his hands on the steering wheel and was looking straight ahead.

“Seeing my mother always makes me tense,” she said at long last.

“Why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“That
is
true.”

Hunter shook his head. “Daffy, something happened between you and me from the time we left this house”—he pointed his finger toward her house—“and the time we left the restaurant.”

She nibbled on the tip of her little finger.

“And maybe I should be smart enough to know what it is,” he went on, “but I haven’t got a clue.” He scowled. “Unless you’re carrying the torch for your friend Oliver and seeing him reminded you.”

“Oh, that’s not it at all!” Daffy shifted in the seat to face Hunter. Just because she couldn’t express her fears and confess her identity didn’t mean she wanted Hunter thinking she was pining for another man.

“Aha!”

“Aha, what?”

“If that’s not it, that means there is something wrong you’re not telling me.” He looked way, way too smug.

“I hate it when logic is used against me,” Daffy said, grinning despite herself.

“I hate it when I feel a wall between us,” Hunter said.

“Now
that’s
romantic.” Daffy reached out and touched his hand. “I know you have to go to work, but do you want to come inside for a few minutes?”

His answer was a quick exit from the Jeep. As she reached for her key, Daffy remembered the evening they’d returned from Jazzfest. They’d both been hot for each other, and they’d both been playing games.

Tonight was different.

She slipped the key into her front-door lock.

She, Daffodil Landry, was different.