Eye Candy (City Chicks) (7 page)

"All that business makes my head hurt," Ferrero complained in a lilting—and I've always suspected fake since it sounds nothing like Alberto's—Italian accent. "If only I could just make my fabulous creations without having to worry about numbers and reports and sales."

I pasted on my best yes-I-understand-you-temperamental-artistic-types smile. Curbing the desire to explain that without all those numbers and reports and sales he would be penniless, living in a cardboard box, and fashioning chic outerwear from garbage bags. Not a disgustingly wealthy millionaire with his gowns fought over by all the best starlets.

"But this weekend is for fun, not for business," he said with a dismissive wave of his perfectly manicured hands. "What do you do for fun, Lydia Vandowelk."

"Van-der-walk," I enunciated. The chances of him actually remembering my name were slimmer than the chances of the strawberry-banana Starburst in my purse making it through the night.

But Alberto had said "
make
 him remember."

Ferrero was the epitome of 
artiste
. A man who thrived on creativity. And, if Marlene's gossip was right—and it usually was—flesh.

Deciding to hit both birds with one stone, I leaned forward to reveal a little deeper cleavage and draw attention to the pear-shaped pendant dangling therein and confessed, "I design jewelry."

"Jewelry," he exclaimed. "Such a fascinating field. What sort of pieces do you design?"

"Pieces like this." I did my best to drawl—imagining how Fiona would make a man remember her through body language and tone of voice.

She always said men needed to be hit over the head with the obvious, so I took one French-manicured finger and trailed it along the invisible wire of the necklace to the dangling pendant. Ferrero's pale blue eyes followed every inch of the way, alight with interest and—

"Who's the guy ogling your breasts?" Phelps asked conversationally as he came up on my left and slipped an arm around my waist.

I elbowed him in the ribs. My face burned with embarrassment.

Ferrero recovered admirably—surely he had yards of experience being caught ogling other men's women—and grinned at Phelps. "I was just admiring your young woman's work of art."

"That's one I never heard."

"I was showing 
Mr. Ferrero
"—I pulled out of his grasp and lifted the pendant to his view—"my jewelry design."

Phelps examined the necklace closely—though I'm not sure he wasn't copping an ogle, too. "It's beautiful," he decreed. Then remembered that he should have already seen all my jewelry. "As always. But all the more beautiful because it has such a lovely canvas."

He took the hand that held the necklace and pressed a kiss to the back.

I was not appeased by the sweet gesture. Or the genuine admiration in his voice. Or the apologetic smile.

"Dance with me?" he asked as a slow song played out across the beach.

Alright, I was appeased.

But not because he obviously realized his mistake and was trying to make up for it, but because Ferrero was taking this all in with rapt attention. Ha, let's see him forget me next time we meet.

"Go, go," he said. "Dance with your young man beneath the stars. Tomorrow, we must speak more about your designs."

"Yes!" I screamed. On the inside.

On the outside, I said, "Of course, Mr. Ferrero."

"Please," he argued as Phelps took my hand and led me away, "you must call me Franco."

I smiled like a kid presented with a 5-lb bag of Brach's Fun Mix. I hardly noticed as Phelps led me toward the surf, out of the circle of light thrown by the bonfire.

Ferre— Franco was definitely going to remember me.

"Sorry."

I looked at Phelps, a look of pure contrition on his handsome face. Hmmm, this night was getting better and better.

"I had no idea that was your boss," he apologized.

He looked really sorry. And I was a little amazed that this cocky, arrogant man—whom I had only known a few hours—had a remorseful bone in his body.

Rather than give in to the impulse to berate him, I let him pull me into a slow dance.

"You know, I should be mad." The wet sand felt cool beneath my feet. "I really should. But I'm not."

"You're not?" he asked, incredulous.

Maybe I had been a little high strung all evening. No wonder he expected me to rail him for embarrassing me.

His arms encircled my waist and I let him lead our sway to the soft jazz. This had to be the most incredibly romantic moment of my life—if only I weren't sharing it with a guy who was being paid to be here.

But I guess I could have a romantic moment of my own.

"I wanted to make an impression." I laid my head on his shoulder, closing my eyes and absorbing the moment with all my senses.

The smell of the sea—a little salty, a little fishy—and Calvin Klein Contradiction filled my nostrils. Small waves broke upon the sand with a rhythmic roar, somehow in tune with the rhythm of Norah Jones. Phelps held me close, but not tight. One broad hand flat across my lower back, the other smoothing circles along my spine.

I felt hypnotized.

When he turned his head to whisper, "Everyone's watching," I barely noticed.

One hand left my back to lift my chin. "Everyone's watching," he repeated. "Let's give 'em a show."

He smiled softly as his head dipped.

This kiss was nothing like the passionate one on the front porch.

His lips moved softly over mine. Tasting. Nibbling. Exploring. His hand, still cupping my chin, drew my mouth open. And I complied.

When his tongue slipped between my lips, I groaned. I was lost in the moment. My imaginary romantic moment had become a reality. And, if the bulge pressing against my abdomen were any indication, this was just as real for Phelps.

A piercing scream rent the air, followed by a deafening explosion. We leapt apart as a second explosion burst directly above us.

"Fireworks," I explained unnecessarily, as a sparkle of embers rained down around us.

Looking back toward the bonfire, I saw Jawbreaker standing between Ferrero and the KYs, delightful malice in her eyes.

"That bi—"

Phelps jerked me into a run as the next string of fireworks burst over our heads. He didn't stop until we were at the picket fence—white of course—separating the manicured lawn from the beach.

"She did that on purpose," I complained. "She could have warned us or—"

"Are you all right?"

"—delayed the start or—"

"Lydia!" Phelps shook me.

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course." I was fine, but he looked awfully shaken. "Are 
you
 all right?"

"Yes, yes, it's just—" He looked warily back down the beach. "I don't... I don't like fireworks."

This looked like more than just dislike. This looked a little like fear.

And rather than gloat, I found myself wanting to sooth his fears. It takes a lot of courage for a man as arrogantly masculine as Phelps Elliot to own up to a fear.

"Let's go inside," I offered.

Away from the fireworks. Away from bosses, scheming and lecherous alike. Away from—I shivered at the thought—those few interrupted moments on the beach.

My heart hardened against Jawbreaker and her scheming triplets. "This," I announced, "is war."

5

Q: Why do you have to go to bed at night?
A: Because the bed won't come to you.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #195

Sleeping arrangements were easily dealt with; Phelps slept on the floor with the caveat that he had to be up before anyone might come to wake us.

I was a little concerned that he had much more depth than Fiona led me to believe. My dreams that night were of a Jacuzzi tub full of Hot Tamales, Phelps, and me. And let me tell you, the heat was not coming from the candy.

At one point I bolted up in bed, shocked by the throbbing between my legs and certain that he must have heard me moaning in my sleep.

But when I peered over the edge, he lay soundly asleep on the floor, his expression angelic.

I collapsed back into the bed and slept peacefully throughout the rest of the night.

Breakfast harkened the arrival of Gavin.

We were on the back deck, plates of eggs benedict and exotic fruit perched on our knees, when I heard the melodious tenor of his voice.

I dropped my plate.

"Good morning, Lydia," he crooned, as I knelt to clean up my mess. Dubble Bubble Damn, why did his first sight have to be me on my hands and knees at his feet. Just where he wanted me, I'm sure.

"Gavin." I nodded my head in the barest tilt of polite acknowledgment.

Then my prince stepped in.

"Hey, you’re the ex!" Phelps thrust out his hand, forcibly taking Gavin's in return and pumping it enthusiastically. "Can't thank you enough for being such an ass. Lyd's the best thing that ever happened to me."

I might have been mortified, but for the look of utter aghast on Gavin's pretty boy face.

"Um, you’re welcome."

Gavin. At a loss for words? Priceless.

"If you hadn't boinked your secretary, then where would we be?"

Fiona must have told him more than just the particulars.

Gavin turned bright red—I had never thought to see Gavin Fairchild embarrassed—and could not come up with a single thing to say.

But I could.

"I don't know about you, Sweet Tooth, but I'd be married to a louse who dropped his pants for anything dumb enough to put out." I stood, setting my plate on the bench behind me, and settled in at Phelps' side. "I'm much happier where I am."

Phelps grinned at me and I did the most startling thing; I kissed him. Right there in front of God, Gavin, and everybody.

Just a quick peck, but enough to send Gavin stalking back into the house with a vengeance.

"Bravo," Phelps whispered as he gave me a return peck on the ear.

Someone started clapping. I turned to find Alberto applauding my brilliant set-down, and several female—recently divorced—guests joined him.

Alberto stepped forward and patted me on the shoulder. "That was a very pretty thing. For you." He inclined his head to Ferrero, walking this way from the other end of the deck. "Just remember who your audience is."

With that, he disappeared, leaving me alone with Phelps to face the approaching Ferrero.

While I was proud of myself for putting Gavin in his place, I knew that kind of outburst was unprofessional and could not be repeated.

"That was great," I whispered hurriedly before Ferrero arrived, "but we can't do that again. I need to maintain my professional image."

"Got it." If he smiled that cocky grin one more time, so help me— he grinned. And made good his exit. "I'll just leave you to face the letch alone."

"Good morning, beautiful Olivia," Ferrero greeted.

So much for my lasting impression.

"Actually Mr. Ferrero, it's Lydia," I reminded.

"Of course, but I asked you to call me Franco."

He smiled, his white teeth a perfect match to his white hair and white linen shirt. The shirt hit mid-thigh, and a far as I could tell he had nothing on underneath. Great Mr. Goodbar.

"Since you have disobeyed, you must join me in the bubble tub." He frowned, searching for the English word. "The hot tub."

I hid my scowl, pretty sure I detected the teeniest bit of Jersey in his accent.

"I don't have my suit on," I objected.

"Nonsense. Who needs a suit?" At my look of horror, he added, "I only tease. Go. Fetch your suit." He waved me away. "And that man of yours."

As he turned and walked off in the direction of the hot tub—its very existence a mystery to me since the ocean was only steps away—this time I openly scowled. His eyes had nearly glowed at the mention of Phelps.

Maybe Marlene's rumor about the flesh was off by a gender.

Phelps in swim trunks was a sight to behold.

Tall, six-one or six-two. Broad-shouldered and muscular—like he played a little football in the park on weekends. Only he probably didn't since any injuries might conflict with his modeling career.

Then again, the man climbed the Andes for fun, so what did I know about his career conflicts.

But I did know a mighty fine ass when I saw one. And the ass emerging from our en 
suite
 bathroom, encased in gray nylon with white piping, definitely qualified.

Sweet Saltwater Taffy.

"Ready to hit the bubbles?" He cocked a brow and tucked two fluffy white towels beneath his arm.