First Kiss (8 page)

Kiki rose from the chair. "Don't patronize me!"

Fabrizio laughed harder now. "Will you please tell me what this argument is about ?"

"You insinuated that I was cheap," Kiki said flatly.

His smile wasn't mocking. It was amused. Clearly, he liked her. "Maybe you should write for the tabloids. You misread situations, too. All I said was that Tom Brock wouldn't cheat."

"But the implication was that"

" Nothing was implied," Fabrizio insisted gently. "But if you need the ego boost, I'll say it." He cleared his throat. "You, lady, are one hot number, and a smart man would ditch his wife and kid to start a new life with you."

This infuriated Kiki. "So you actually think that I'm some kind of home wrecker?"

Fabrizio buried his face in his hands. "I think my only way out of this is by helicopter." He resurfaced with a lazy smile. "You know, if I make a run for the roof, you'll never catch me in those heels."

Kiki gave him a diffident sniff. "Who says I'd bother to give chase?"

Now it was Fabrizio's turn to be offended. But he did so in the style of a great pretender. "What? I'm not good enough to go after?"

This pushed a reluctant smile past her lips. It took a nanosecond to realize how frustrating she must be to him. "You probably think I'm insane."

"I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me."

Kiki tilted her head to one side. "Fair enough."

"Truce?"

"Truce." It was over. Their first fight. Now Kiki was back in the real world of wondering if he would ask for her phone number. "I need a place to hide out for a few days," she announced casually. "So I guess the question is this: Can I stay at Affair if I'm not actually having one?"

A faint smile played around Fabrizio's lips as he consulted the sleek iMac sitting atop his desk. "Normally, we have strict rules about such things." He winked at her. "But I'll make a special exception in this case."

"How accommodating. I appreciate the five-star service, Fabrizio."

"Call me Fab," he said, clicking the mouse like mad.

Fab . Taken at face value, the name fit. Perfectly.

Suddenly, worry lines creased his forehead as he stared at the screen. "I might have some bad news.

Looks like the hotel is booked solid." Obviously not one to give up easily, his search continued.

Kiki felt the disappointment in the pit of her stomach.

"Wait. Disregard that," Fab said, decidedly more upbeat now. "We have one room available." He started to laugh. "Pretty ironic, though."

"Why's that?"

"It's called the Mistress Hideaway."

Kiki gave him a little snarl. "Hilarious." One beat. "How much? The Post was right about one thing I'm out of work, and as much as I loathe to admit it, I'm a girl who needs to be budget conscious."

"The rate's five hundred."

" A night ?" She could see the bottom of the Gucci boot box already. Why couldn't Fab operate a Marv's Motor Inn like her future sister-in-law?

He looked up, still amused by her. "Tell you what. I'll cut the rate to two fifty. Even though you've already cost me a comped room and a bottle of Cris-tal." He started to type. "You should check in under an alias. The tabloids probably have flacks working the phones to check every hotel in the city for a Kiki Douglas. Any ideas?"

"Jennifer Aniston."

Fab did a double take.

"I've always wanted to be her," Kiki explained. "Love the hair."

His fingers danced over the keyboard. "Okay. Jennifer Aniston it is. Welcome to Affair, Miss Aniston." He gave her a bold, flirtatious stare that stretched on long enough to ease the situation into sexual gear. "And if there's anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, please don't hesitate to ask."

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Word of Caution

Breckin!

We must make a pact and vow to stick together throughout this wedding. No matter what. I say this because we are surrounded by people with questionable judgment. Here's a cheat sheet:

1) My brother is marrying a woman he met five minutes ago.

2) His bride-to-be's family runs a cheap motel chain.

3) One of the bridesmaids engineered a legal attack that allowed a vile rich man (similar to my ex-husband; okay, it WAS my ex) to totally take advantage of a defenseless young wife (that would be me) in a divorce settlement.

Would YOU trust the opinions of these people? Brace yourself. It's just you and me, darling. How is the yacht research coming along?

Air Kisses, Kiki

True to its name, the Mistress Hideaway was tucked away in a discreet corner of the hotel, the half corridor to its entrance directly accessible by stairwell for added discretion.

Fab escorted Kiki to the suite personally, and as they entered the small haven that was no larger than four hundred square feet, he said, "If these walls could talk"

Kiki took in her temporary home. "They would probably be saying Get me a bigger room ."

Fab placed the old-fashioned room key on the small writing desk. "Don't be such a diva. It's cozy."

" Cozy ? That's happy talk for claustrophobic." Even as the words of her thumbs-down review sliced the air, Kiki studied the room. In all honesty, there was a great escape quality to it. The exposed beams and brick walls of the hotel's past life as a warehouse gave it a certain charm. Then there were the light brown walnut flooring, the Moroccan rugs, and the oversized bed with huge pillows dressed in Egyptian white cotton.

Fab proceeded with the mini-tour. "You've got a plasma screen TV, DVD player, stereo, high-speed Internet access, fully stocked minibar, and twenty-four-hour room service. Joie is our in-house restaurant. The chef is incredibleI poached him from my favorite bistro in Paris. There's a spacious walk-in shower. The bathroom is stocked with Sisley products. And the terry cloth bathrobe hanging on the door is yours to keep." He paused a moment, opening his hands to the surroundings as he glanced around. "I believe that's it."

Kiki could sense his imminent departure, and a sudden urgency to delay the inevitable surprised her. "Not quite. You never told me what these walls would say if they could talk."

"Let's just leave it at this: Many famous marriages would be in trouble."

Kiki's eyes went wide. "I want names. And you can trust me. I won't tell a soul." She pantomimed locking her lips and throwing the imaginary key over her shoulder.

"Presidents, movie stars, heads of industry. That's all you'll get out of me."

Kiki crawled onto the bed and rolled over on her back. It was the body language of bored teenager. But the short cutoffs riding farther up her thighs

-

hinted at something else. She sighed. Clearly gossip wasn't his thing. "You're no fun."

"Oh, but I can be." His voice went down an octave. From sexy to sexier. In the game of counterattack flirtation, he was a Jedi master.

Kiki's lips were slightly parted, and as she did something barely legal with her tongue, Fab moved closer to the bed. Her stomach did a couple of revolutions.

And then the ring of her cellular blasted the exotic/erotic moment to smithereens.

Kiki jumped to answer. It could be Sarah Ann Duckworth calling with a way out of the public relations nightmare. Or her agent, Keith Bush, dialing in with news about a job. But the screen merely revealed that Suzi-Suzi was burning up the wire. Kiki picked up. "Remind me to talk to you about your bad timing."

"Yours isn't so hot, either," Suzi-Suzi snapped. "I'm thirty minutes late for a catalog shoot because I've been running all over the city for you ." Big sigh. "But I'm here in the lobby with all of your stuff. Where do you keep your luggage? I couldn't find a single piece, so I packed everything in garbage bags. I look like a girl who just ran away from a homeless shelter."

Kiki smacked her own forehead. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. I keep my Vuitton pieces in Mrs. Manheim's apartment. There's no room in my closet, and she has loads of space."

"Listen, I have to run. Are you coming down or not?"

"Just tell the front desk to bring everything to Jennifer Aniston's room. That's my alias."

"Love that. In fact, I can't wait to say it. Oh, before I forget. Sarah Ann said that she appreciates the payment but can no longer represent you."

"Shut up!"

"I'm serious. Something about signing on Kirsten Brock as a client. I know it sucks, but you'll figure it out. Hey, I'm dashing. I'll call you later."

Kiki held the dead mobile to her ear as the import of Suzi-Suzi's news began to resonate. "I can't believe it," she murmured, as much to herself as to the dreamboat standing next to her in the five-hundred-dollar-a-night closet.

"What?" Fab asked.

She tossed the phone onto the bed and looked at him. "My publicist just dropped me from her client roster." Kiki delivered this news with a gravity presidential advisors might employ on the topic of national security.

"Sounds like a good thing," Fab reasoned. "I don't think she's up for the job. Have you seen today's paper? You're getting some really bad publicity."

Kiki was in no mood to laugh. The frisson of irrita-tion that came next effectively snapped whatever was left of the sexual tightwire that had tensed up the room just minutes before.

Fab seemed to read the mood change. "I'll leave you to get settled."

"Do I seem that unsettled?" Kiki asked archly.

"Relax. It's an expression, not a judgment. Maybe you want to take a nap or soak your feet from all the running around in those heels."

"A foot massage would be nice."

Fab nodded dutifully. "I'll check with the spa. They stay booked, but I have some pull." He scribbled a number onto the back of a business card and handed it over. "My mobile." For emphasis, he patted the Motorola device attached to his belt. "It's always with me. Call if you need anything ." Then he winked and started for the exit. "I'll have your luggage sent up as soon as it arrives." His last words were punctuated by the sight of Tate, the ubiquitous bellboy, standing on the other side of the door beside a rolling cart piled high with garbage bags and one Gucci boot box.

"Miss Aniston's things, sir," Tate said.

Fab cleared a path for the bellboy's entry.

"I'll say one thing," Fab remarked, smirking. "You're full of surprises. I figured you for designer luggage." And then he was gone.

Kiki stared at the cart in disbelief. It appeared as if Suzi-Suzi had packed up the entire apartment. "I'm sorry about this. Just put the bags anywhere. It doesn't matter."

"No problem, Miss Aniston."

"Don't be silly," Kiki told the young man. "You can call me Jennifer." She tipped him and sent the boy on his way, feeling pangs of loneliness the moment she heard the deafening sounds of complete solitude. What was she going to do with herself in this little box for three days?

She spent about ten minutes organizing her belongings, then grew bored with the project. Hmm. There was always her new book endeavor, First Runner-Up But Still a Winner . Oh, God, she loved that title. Maybe she should fire up the laptop and crank out a chapter on, say, picking up the pieces and soldiering on after getting dumped by your publicist. Yes! Exactly the kind of material that would speak to women everywhere.