I’m coming, legs tensing, body trembling, hips stuttering against the patio as ecstasy slams through me.
When it’s over, when a warm lassitude has invaded my limbs and I can breathe and think and function again, I push to my feet and pad silently back into my bedroom. I rinse off in a quick shower, then settle back into bed, hoping sleep will finally claim me. But as I close my eyes, all the old shit creeps back in and I know it’s no use.
Sleep won’t be coming anytime soon.
Chapter 5
Lola
My phone rings at ten A.M. and there’s a part of me that wants to just let it go to voicemail. I’ve been on conference calls since four this morning and I have another one scheduled in fifteen minutes. All I want is to spend the fifteen minutes I do have just sitting here with my coffee, doing nothing and thinking about nothing.
But a quick glance at my phone tells me it’s an unfamiliar number, and I’ve got feelers out about three different estate sales in Paris next week—not to mention a trunk show from one of the top fashion houses, where they plan to sell off select garments from previous years’ collections. Right now the whispers I’m hearing about it put it somewhere between total myth and long shot, but in this business that’s more than enough to have my spidey senses tingling.
It’s the thought of all that orphaned couture that has me putting down my much longed-for coffee and swiping to accept the call.
“Lola Barnes here. What’s up?”
There’s a pause, then a deep voice with just a hint of a French accent responds, “Lola. Hello.”
“Who’s this?” I ask, heart beating a little more quickly. The vo
ice sounds familiar, but I can’t place it and I’m hoping—please God—that it’s the Chanel rep I reached out to this morning.
“Oh, right. It’s Garrett.”
Garrett? I flip through my mental Rolodex for a second, trying to place the name, when the answer suddenly hits me like an eighteen-wheeler. “Gorgeous Garrett?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.
He laughs. “I’m going to go with yes, though I tend not to think of myself by that moniker. Seems so egotistical.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve always believed if you’ve got it, flaunt it.” Not really, but attitude is 99 percent of the game, so I go with it.
“I can see that about you.”
I don’t answer, just wait for him to tell me why he called. But when he doesn’t say anything either, silence stretches taut between us.
Because uncomfortable silences have always been my kryptonite, I jump back in just to make it stop. “How did you get my number?”
“I don’t know.”
That gives me pause. “You don’t…know?”
“I called the head of security for the royal family, asked him to figure out the name and phone number of an American tourist I met at the lake. He did.”
Right. Because when you are Gorgeous Garrett, that’s what you do. You just ask and whatever you want magically appears, even if you have to put your country’s answer to the Secret Service on it.
For a second, I wonder what that must be like. Then decide I would probably hate it. For me, the chase is always at least 80 percent of the thrill.
But that’s another issue altogether, and right now I’ve got other things to wonder—and worry—about. “Why?”
“Why?” He sounds confused, and a little intrigued.
“Why did you want my number?” I settle back in my chair and take a long sip of coffee. “Why are you calling me?”
“You left before our conversation was over yesterday.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who left. Don’t you know it’s rude to keep a woman waiting for over half an hour?”
“It’s exceptionally rude, and I’m so sorry about that. Let me make it up to you by taking you to lunch today.”