City Chicks

Chapter 2

Two

I eased my silver Passat into a parking spot and pulled the post-it from my purse to check the Brooklyn address. Yep, this was the right place.

When Fiona called to tell me her guy was booked solid all week, but I could pick him up from a Friday afternoon shoot, I had doubts. How could I drive a guy out to the Hamptons, on the pretense of being my long-term boyfriend, without having ever met him before?

What had she gotten me into?

What had I gotten me into?

This place was a dump, D-U-M-P. Once it might have been a thriving pier-side warehouse, but all that remained was a weathered shell. Of the twenty windows in the crumbling red brick façade, three had glass in them. The remaining seventeen were either boarded up or broken out. The kind of place where nightmares were born.

Desperate for a sugar fix, I popped open the glove box and dug around for a Jolly Rancher. Watermelon. Exactly what I needed.

Never underestimate the therapeutic sounds of crinkling cellophane.

I had just popped the block of heaven into my mouth when someone tapped on my passenger side window. I screamed—like a horror movie heroine—and spat my Jolly Rancher onto the dashboard.

My heart pounded in sugar-rush-heavy thumps. Short black hair. Tanned olive skin. Bright blue eyes that shone like a blue raspberry Dum-Dum after it’d been sucked on for a while. All blended into a face of breathtaking proportion. He motioned with his hand to roll down the window. Half a lifetime of New York-learned safety melted away like wet cotton candy, and I complied.

“You Lydia?” he asked when the window lowered enough for his head to fit through.

“Y-yes.” I reached for the Jolly Rancher. Freeing the sticky pink block from the charcoal gray dashboard, I eyed it carefully before deeming it too grubby to eat.

“I’m Phelps.” He smiled—a broad, white-toothed smile that belonged in toothpaste commercials. And before I could remember that he was a model and might very well have been in countless toothpaste commercials, he lifted the handle and opened the passenger door. He settled into the leather seat and pulled the door shut, dropping a well-worn duffle bag on the floor. “Sorry I’m late.”

I got my first look beyond his beautiful, chiseled face. While he might be beyond reproach above the neck, the rest of him was another story. Clothed in some space age silver bodysuit, he looked like a Star Wars reject.

“What are you wearing?” I demanded.

Not the picture perfect boyfriend date I was paying for. He belonged at a Trekkie convention, not a Southampton soiree.

My Jolly Rancher and my career, both ruined.

“What?” He looked confused and glanced down at himself. “Oh yeah, I was working.”

“On what? A remake of Lost in Space?” I was beginning to think Fiona had overestimated his intellect.

But I didn’t have time to care. We were late already, so I put the car in gear.

“A cologne shoot,” he laughed, the kind that slipped in beneath your skin to tickle every feminine nerve ending. The kind that almost made me grin stupidly in return, despite the fact that Captain Kirk was my escort to the most important business function of my career.

I scowled. Men should not be allowed to use that kind of laugh on unsuspecting women.

“Don’t worry.” Phelps unzipped the duffel and produced a rolled up shirt. “I have plenty of time to get changed.”

“Get ch—” Managing to drive between the lines, I caught sight of him tugging the silver spandex wonder over his head, revealing a chest as chiseled as his face. Holy Hot Tamales, this guy should be a Calvin Klein undies hottie. Which in no way explained why he was getting naked in my car. “What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed,” he answered, buttoning the sedate blue oxford shirt over his impressive chest. “You might want to look the other way for a minute. In this getup I had to go commando.”

I felt my cheeks erupt in flames. Surely this man was not about to— A zipper roared and I kept my eyes glued to the road.

Suppressing my feminine curiosity, I remembered my interrupted sugar fix. Maybe that explained my weak thoughts. Withdrawal.

With Phelps’ current state of undress the glove box was out. Instead, I groped behind the seat, blindly rummaging through the seat pocket until I found my open package of Sugar Babies.

I tore into that tiny caramel ball like it was my first drop of water after a week in the desert.

“Hey, got another one of those?” Phelps held out his hand.

“No,” I lied. No one shares my candy stash, least of all a Clone Wars reject sure to earn me a demotion.

Clearly he did not understand the gravity of the situation.

Keeping my eyes on the road, I said, “I don’t know how much Fiona explai—”

“You need a token boyfriend to impress your hard-ass boss.”

He arched forward in the seat and I caught a glimpse of tan line free, naked flesh from the corner of my eye. Fiona’s comment about his basement came rushing back as I saw exactly what she meant. My breath caught, and I concentrated on navigating my way onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“Right,” I answered. “I accidentally told her I had a boyfriend, and—”

“How do you accidentally tell someone you have a boyfriend?” Another rasp of a zipper and Phelps was fully clothed.

Was I relieved or disappointed? Relieved, I told myself.

“It’s a long, long story, but the bottom line is she thinks we’ve been dating for six months and we need to make her believe that this weekend.”

“No worries.” He folded his arms behind his head and relaxed back into the seat. “With Friday afternoon traffic, we have three hours to make up for six months of intimacy.”

Steering the Passat onto the Long Island Expressway, I swallowed my retort to his smart comment. “My job dep—”

“Wait, we have been intimate, haven’t we?”

My fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“Listen, this may be just a game to you. A way to make some easy cash,” I bit out through clenched teeth. “But my future rides on this weekend, and if you can’t help that happen then I’ll just drop you at the next train station.”

“Relax, Lyd. I can play the part.” He turned in his seat, facing me. “Tell me everything I need to know about you.”

“I need a rest stop,” I announced as we drove through Massapequa.

More than a bathroom, I needed a minute away from sharing a confined space with Phelps. That man had a personality that would try the forgiving patience of a monk.

I pulled into a Shell station and shut off the engine.

“Want me to pump?” he asked.

Did I ever. Holy Hot Tamales, where did that thought come from? Sugar. I needed sugar.

“Sure,” I said, anything to get away from him sooner. “I’ll just pop inside.”

“Grab me a Fiji water, will ya?”

He smiled that cocky smile I had fast become familiar with during the past hour, and I fled the scene. I didn’t really have to use the restroom, but I thought I had better go for appearance’s sake. In the cramped but thankfully clean ladies room I splashed cold water on my face and touched up my flagging makeup. I needed more than some eyeliner and lip gloss to boost my flagging spirit.

My problem was more than just his overbearing attitude. In the car—my baby—he had to control the radio, the a/c, and even the driving. I was tempted to let him drive, just to stop his incessant directions. You’d think I’d asked the man to pilot the U.S.S. Enterprise into the Delta Quadrant, not navigate the Passat to Southampton.

“Speed up, it’s sixty-five here,” I mimicked. “Get in the fast lane. Pass that wagon.”

We weren’t even out of Brooklyn before I wanted to gag the man.

Sure, he was attractive—okay, he could make a girl drop her panties with a single wink—but that didn’t mean he would get his way every time.

“Could ya find a radio station not playing bubblegum pop?” he had asked.

Who made him the arbiter of what counted as good music? Besides, I had to stay current on all things pop culture. Books. Movies. Music. They all fed the fashion.

I walked out of the ladies’ room mimicking his complaints. “Damn, it’s cold in here,” he had said. “What are you, a penguin?”

Yep, that ‘s me. Lydia “the Penguin” Vanderwalk.

Sugar, my mind called.

Like a piglet sniffing out truffles, I followed my nose to the candy section. So many choices. I was instantly soothed. I grabbed a Bit-o-Honey and a bag of Peach Os—and an Oh Henry, just to complete the “O” theme and just in case I needed the extra pick-me-up.

Glancing out the plate glass windows to see Phelps gyrating around my car in a dance frighteningly reminiscent of the Macarena, I grabbed a Rolo, too.

This was going to be the longest weekend of my life.

By the time we got to the first exit for Westhampton—only thirty miles left to go—I knew more about Phelps Elliot than I ever cared to. As the dense urbanization of the city gave way to the more natural landscape of the far reaches of the island, his inhibitions—if he had any to begin with—melted away. The man did not have a problem with sharing.

“And this scar,” he boasted, indicating the back of his right elbow, “I got mountaineering in Patagonia. The Andes can be a bitch.”

I stared blankly down the road, concentrating on the car in front of me so I didn’t give in to the temptation to drive my baby into a ditch and end it right there.

“And this one,” he continued, scooting forward in the seat and reaching for his waistband, “I got—”

“Enough!” I shouted.

Phelps froze, thumbs tucked into the waistband of his black trousers, mouth open, about to detail yet another dangerous adventure. The man was a walking wonder of Emergency Room medicine.

“I think,” I said more calmly, toning down my voice from the hysteria that threatened, “I know about enough scars. No one is going to ask me for a detailed accounting of your physical flaws.”

“Hey, these aren’t flaws, babe.” He smiled that smile that made me cringe. “They’re character.”

The man leaned back into the corner between the seat and the door. I hit the door locks. As much as I might relish Phelps being splattered across the Route 27, there would be a lot of questions and police reports and paperwork if he fell out of my car doing sixty-five—as I’d been told several times was the speed limit.

On second thought... I hit the locks again, smiling smugly at the unlocking click.

With a casual grace, he stretched his legs out and folded his arms behind his head. He was the picture of relaxed elegance. Like an old-time movie star. Rock Hudson. Without the disappointing homosexuality.

Or maybe not.

I eyed him carefully. Neat hair and appearance. Nice taste in clothes. He had yet to mention show tunes or Liza Minnelli or a roommate named Kyle, but still...

“Are you gay?” I asked.

I expected him to be insulted, or to get defensive, or to say yes. Instead, he waggled his brows. “Wanna find out?”

His bright blue eyes raked over my three-hours-in-a-car wrinkled self in appraisal. I don’t know what he imagined he saw beneath my khaki slacks and navy and white striped boatneck tee—let me tell you, there were no curves to ogle—but the sexy look he gave me was undeniable.

My mouth dropped open and I gasped for breath.

Before I could answer vehemently in the negative, he added, “Thought not.” He rested his head in the pillow of his folded arms and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”

“We’re almost there,” I announced, giving him a sharp poke in the belly.

I could have enjoyed the sight of him jerking awake in surprise if I hadn’t felt his firm, muscular abs beneath my finger. That single touch sent a shiver of sensation up my arm in a wave of goose bumps.

Unacceptable reaction. This was a business relationship. Supply and demand. Buyer and seller.

Which reminded me...

“We need to talk about money.”

We hadn’t had a chance to discuss his fee. With our busy work schedules, it was a miracle Fiona found time to talk to both of us and get us together at all. And Fi was not a money kind of girl—she was lucky to keep all her utilities paid. So it was no wonder she didn’t think to talk with Phelps about it.

“What about money?” he asked.

“How much are you charging for this weekend?”

He sleepily rubbed at his eyes. “Shouldn’t we have talked about this before we left the city?”

“Maybe,” I said, irritated because he was right, “but we’re here now.”

“Okay. My usual fee is $200.”

“$200 a day, that’s not too bad.”

“$200 an hour.”

“An hour!” No wonder he wore designer clothes. “I can’t afford that.”

Though my salary at Ferrero is more than enough to pay my bills, support my jewelry-making hobby, and keep me in name brands, I couldn’t afford to throw away ten grand on a weekend date. Someday I wanted to actually buy an apartment. And somehow I didn’t think the IRS would consider a male escort a business expense.

Mental Post-It: Consult accountant about possible deduction.

“That’s my usual fee, but this is a unique case.” He considered for a moment. “How about $750 for the weekend?”

“$250,” I countered.

“$500?” he offered.

“Sold.” I felt like a top-notch negotiator. Dragging down the asking price by 95% was pretty impressive. “Hand me my purse.”

“You don’t have to pay me now.”

“I want this part behind us.”

“Fine.” He handed me my purse and waited impatiently as I grabbed my checkbook, set it against the horn so I could make out a check.

I smiled, certain he was ready to grab the wheel the moment I started to veer off the road, but I was an accomplished vehicular multi-tasker.

“Oh, Double Bubble damn,” I exclaimed as I handed him the check, “that was our exit.”

Phelps grabbed the handle on the dash with white knuckles as I dove across three lanes of traffic and two sets of solid white lines.

I smiled—the Andes, my ass. Welcome to the Lydias. The weekend was starting to look better already.

The valet at Jawbreaker’s mansion took my keys and called his partner to take our luggage. Well, my luggage and Phelps’s duffle bag.

But Phelps waved him off. “I got this,” he said, grabbing my over-packed suitcase with one hand and slinging his duffle over the same shoulder.

The valet shrugged, as if to say “Whatever, man,” then climbed into the car and revved the engine.

Remembering my earlier mishap with the Jolly Rancher, I called out, “Oh, and could you wipe off the dashboard? I got something sticky on it.”

Oh no, did that sound as bad as it sounded?

The valet threw Phelps a look that said, “Way to go, man.”

Before I could explain, he closed the door and drove my baby away. I hated seeing her vanish in the hands of a stranger, professional or not. She was my urban tank. My escape from the concrete jungle when I needed to be far, far away. And after nearly 100,000 miles, she had never had any major injuries.

I scowled after the cocky valet.

She’d better not get any now.

Turning back to Phelps, I found him pulling a sport coat from his duffle. He unrolled it with a brisk snap and dropped the luggage to put it on. Compared to the space-age catsuit he had been wearing, the man sure cleaned up nice. Dark blue button-down shirt, casual-yet-sophisticated grey houndstooth sport coat, flat-front black trousers, black alligator belt, and shiny black oxfords. The setting sun casting a warm glow around him. He looked right at home on the porch of a Southamptons mansion that looked like it belonged to a Kennedy or a Vanderbilt. Ready to take the Summer Sail Away by the stern.

He was only missing one tiny piece of information.

“There’s one thing I, um, forgot to tell you.”

“What’s that?” he asked unconcerned, smoothing down the collar of his coat.

“Well,” I began, “in addition to my colleagues from work and some industry professionals, there’s one person on the guest list you should be aware of.”

“Who?” He grabbed up the luggage with his right arm and turned to me. “Some celebrity?”

“No.” Truth time. “My ex-fiancé.”

He let out a low whistle. “That should shake things up at this squares-fest. Want me to sock him one in the jaw?”

“No! That’s not what I wa—”

“Cause that’d be no trouble,” he persisted. “Wouldn’t even charge you extra.”

“No, no, no. I don’t want you to punch Gav—”

“Are you sure? Because it’s been my experience that ex-fiancés usually deserve a punch or two. Otherwise they’d be husbands by now.”

“No!” I shouted. Mr. Goodbar, this man was incorrigible. And made no sense. “Leave Gavin alone!”

The door swung open soundlessly as I ranted, revealing Jawbreaker with a beaming smile on her Botoxed mug.

“Now, you two aren’t having a lovers’ spat already are you?” Her smug expression indicating she would love nothing more. “The weekend has only just begun.”

I started to answer defensively. “N—”

“Just a little debate over who loves whom more,” Phelps said. He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and tugged me close. “But I think we both know who won.”

He looked into my eyes for just a second. Just long enough to let me know what he was going to do before he did it. Then, his mouth descended and I forgot Jawbreaker and the safety of Gavin’s jaw and all the reasons I had to dislike this man. All I knew was the sensation of his hard, hot mouth and the tickling sweep of his tongue over my lips.

Sweet Saltwater Taffy, the man knew how to kiss!

His broad hand cupped my head and held me firm against his mouth. I grabbed blindly at his lapels, searching for even more connection.

“Ah-hem!”

Phelps pulled away at Jawbreaker’s interruption. “Sorry,” he said, still holding me close and not looking the least bit apologetic, “I get a little carried away when Lyd is around. Could you take these for me?”

He tossed her the luggage and pulled me back in for another kiss. Just before his mouth landed on mine I saw Jawbreaker scowl and turn away, carrying our luggage into the house like a bellhop and leaving us alone on the porch.

“That was masterful,” I exclaimed, pulling out of the kiss before I got too involved to stop.

He grinned, and this time I didn’t cringe. “Now, if you’re ready to release me from your romance-cover clinch, are you ready to start this party right?”

I was too elated over besting Jawbreaker to even resent his cocky comment. Instead, I slipped my arm around his waist and said, “Into the spider’s web.”

We walked arm-in-arm through the front door, and I hoped that little quease in my belly was from sugar overload and not ominous premonition.